


On His Dark Throne

by EmilianaDarling



Series: Where the Shadows Lie [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: (not Thorin or Bilbo), Alternate Universe - Dark, Character Death, Dark Character, F/M, Forced Marriage, Implied Mild Dubious Consent, Imprisonment, M/M, Manipulation, Possessive Behavior, Subterfuge, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-01-27 20:46:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1722023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilianaDarling/pseuds/EmilianaDarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin takes the ring.</p>
<p>All of Middle Earth is left shuddering in his wake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On His Dark Throne

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [The Hobbit Big Bang](http://hobbitstory.livejournal.com/) in collaboration with artists [nikorys](http://nikorys.tumblr.com/) and [sweetladybat](http://sweetladybat.tumblr.com/)! Sweetladybat's awesome piece can be found [here](http://slbarts.tumblr.com/post/87353081599/this-is-my-third-and-last-drawing-for-the-hobbit)! I adore her inclusion of Fili and the fact that _everyone looks miserable forever_ which is ridiculously accurate to the fic itself. (It's so cool to see something I've seen in my head come to life like this!) Nikorys's gorgeous piece of art can be found [here](http://nikorys.tumblr.com/post/87776279014) and I'm just... god, I'm so blown away by the incredible amount of painstaking detail she put into her collection of work. They truly capture the mood of the story. ( _God_ , how did I get so lucky?)
> 
> I've been thinking about and working on this fic for so long that I can't even see straight anymore. I really hope you guys enjoy it, but please know going in that it's a very dark story. If anyone has questions about the content, please feel free to ask me off anon over on my [tumblr](http://emilianadarling.tumblr.com).
> 
> "On His Dark Throne" was originally envisioned as a two-chapter fic with one chapter from Bilbo's perspective and one from Thorin's. Due to the Hobbit Big Bang deadline, however, I have decided to post the section from Bilbo's perspective as a standalone fic. Hopefully in the near future I will be able to post the section from Thorin's perspective as the second and final installment in this series. If chosen, "On His Dark Throne" can be read as a darkest timeline sequel to "Beneath the Mountains Music Woke".

 

There was a tiny shaft of light coming from the far end of the throne room.

Bilbo stared at it, transfixed. The throne sat in the centre of a vast and cavernous hall; it was difficult to pinpoint where such a light could be coming from, but there it was nonetheless. Dwarvish walls were so thick and the craftsmanship so unparalleled that he could not remember ever seeing such a flaw before. Just the slightest crack in the great mountain walls, the smallest hint of actual sunlight peering in from the outside world.

There were various representatives and delegates coming and going in front of him, but Bilbo barely noticed them. Their voices were low and monotonous, ebbing and flowing with little enough variation that they demanded no attention, and it was easy enough to allow himself to drift. He stared at the light instead of paying attention to their various requests and platitudes, his eyes trained instead on that single imperfect shaft of light.

For an insane moment he wondered whether, if he were able to find where that pinprick of light fell and stand in its path, it would feel warm against his skin.

“The representative from Dale, my king,” one of Thorin’s attendants announced, and Bilbo crashed back into himself as though falling from a great height.

Bilbo wrenched his gaze away from the beam of light, blinking as he became properly aware of his surroundings for the first time. The stone seat beneath him was hard and uncompromising, his own body swathed in too-heavy fabrics and gaudy gems. He glanced up – and forced himself to focus on the Man being roughly dragged in through the great hall doors. 

He was dark-haired and limping badly, being pulled along as much as he was walking. There was something familiar about the way his hair was pulled back, the lines of his face – but it wasn’t until he was halfway down the walkway that Bilbo actually recognized him as Bard.  

Bilbo stiffened at the realization, glancing over uneasily at Thorin.

The King Under the Mountain sat broad and proud on his throne as Bard was deposited roughly at his feet, his eyes fixed on Bard with a burning intensity. His attire was imposingly regal as it always was when he held open court; dark blue ceremonial robes with real silver in the embroidery, his long hair loose except for a few simple braids clasped with mithril beads. Dark intent seemed to roll off him in waves, and there was a pettily smug expression on his face. A vindictiveness in the set of his jaw and the drape of his arms that Bilbo had grown far too familiar with over the past year.

The thick gold of the ring, proud and prominent from its place on Thorin’s right hand, glinted in the torchlight.

Now that he was closer, Bilbo could see that Bard was clearly injured; his nose was bloodied and his eye looked as though it was already swelling, and the involuntary grunt of pain he let out when he was thrown to his knees hinted that there was something wrong with his leg as well.

The whole room seemed to have fallen silent aside from the pounding of Bilbo’s own heart in his chest, the heavy breathing coming from Bard’s crumpled figure on the stone floor in front of them. All of Thorin’s advisors – Dwalin with his crossed arms and Balin with his tired eyes, pale-faced Fili and a rigid Lady Dis, a few other lords wearing expressions that were either pinched or filled with satisfaction by turn – were even more pointedly quiet than they had been before, everyone waiting to see the outcome of the meeting.

Slowly, very slowly, Thorin leaned forward in his seat.

“What business does the _Lord of Dale_ have with Erebor?” he asked, drawing out the words and emphasizing the mockery of a title like the insult it was.

Bard held his gaze, looking stubbornly up at Thorin from his position on the throne room floor. Two armoured dwarf guards stood on either side of him, hands on his shoulders as though to keep him held down, to keep him from running. As though there was anywhere he could possibly go even if he _did_ run.

“My lord king,” said Bard, a hint of bitterness in his voice that he did not even _try_ to hide behind the title. “My men were loading of grain into caravans for transport to Erebor when your _guards_ –” he stressed the word as though it pained him to speak it out loud “—took exception. They tried to claim that _all_ of the grain was destined for Erebor, not just the agreed upon amount.” Bard narrowed his eyes, making him look even more marred and scraped raw than before. “When we fought back, they viciously beat my men and took me here.”

There was a considering pause before Thorin waved a hand in the air dismissively, his eyes sliding off Bard as though he had entirely lost interest in him.

“They were correct to chastise you,” said Thorin curtly, and there was absolutely no sympathy in his voice. “You should not have rebelled against your rightful ruler’s men in such a way. It is treason, and it will not be tolerated.”

Anger flashed in Bard’s eyes, and for a moment his gaze flickered from Thorin to Bilbo, just the briefest glance. It was enough to make Bilbo painfully aware of what he must look like; dressed up in dark red fabric with sparkling citrines threaded through his curls, the mithril shirt just barely peeking out from under his collar. Put on display for visitors to see like a valuable trinket, like the Arkenstone mounted on Thorin’s throne.

Like the shining golden ring on Thorin’s finger.

It was always like this during open court; Thorin liked to put him on display, to make sure every visitor knew of Bilbo’s presence. He had even ordered a custom-made chair for Bilbo to sit in; a smaller, less ornate throne that had been carved especially for him. It kept him looking regal but still close enough that Thorin could reach over and touch him if he wanted; could place a hand on his shoulder and make sure everyone knew that only he was allowed to touch.

Bilbo swallowed, but did not shy away from the look Bard was giving him.  It was only a moment before Bard’s gaze slipped from him, returning to Thorin with renewed hardness in his eyes.

“We had a deal, my lord,” he said slowly, grinding the words out from between clenched jaws. Bilbo leaned forward in his seat almost imperceptibly. “The trade agreement specified three fifths of the grain would go to Erebor, two fifths to my people. We have grown and harvested the wheat, the barley, the oats; we have agreed to spend this upcoming winter on half rations in exchange for your protection.” Bard practically spat out the last word. He took a steadying breath. “All Dale asks is that the terms of our agreement be honoured.”

For a while, Thorin said nothing. Out of the corner of his eye, Bilbo could see the dark glower on his face, the way his shoulders were hunching up. Bilbo sat very still, hands rigid on his lap, looking between them. Trying not to let his unease show on his face.

After a long while, Thorin tilted his head to one side.

“The situation has changed,” Thorin proclaimed with a dark grandeur, staring at Bard on the ground in front of him as though he was something wretched, something _foul_. Bilbo could see him toying with the ring, absent-mindedly rubbing the underside with his thumb. “Erebor will now be requiring all of the grain from this season’s harvest. You will follow this new agreement or you will lose our protection.”

There was a beat of silence so shocked it rang out as loud as a hammer’s clang in the great hall. The words resonated through Bilbo as though they were a physical blow.

_All of the grain_ , thought Bilbo numbly. He thought about some of the winters they'd had in the Shire: even the mildest ones had required sizable stores of wheat and barley to see them through. The farmers always made special efforts to make the last harvest as fruitful as possible in preparation for the dark cold of those months, always made sure they would have enough to eat.

Half rations through winter would be unpleasant, but conceivable. A winter with no grain at all was a death sentence for the entire city. Bilbo risked a glance over at Balin, but only managed to catch his eye briefly before Balin turned away guiltily.

On the ground in front of them, Bard had been rendered speechless in his horrified fury. His mouth hung open as he stared at Thorin in disbelief.

“You cannot do this!” Bard shouted, beginning to fight in earnest against the guards’ hands. “Winter is just around the corner. Half rations were bad enough, but this?” Bard shook his head, dark hair falling into his eyes. He lowered his voice, mouth tense and eyes wild with furious desperation. Bilbo could feel his own heartbeat in his throat. “If we do not get that grain,” he said, quiet and straightforward, “then my people will die.”

“They can leave their chances to the vagaries of the weather or die at the hands of my soldiers, then!” Thorin snarled, surging forward. A wild animal barely constrained.

He’s could see Bard opening his mouth to respond, could see the puffed-up ferocity in Thorin's chest, getting ready for battle, getting ready for _sentencing_ , and Bilbo’s mind was a jagged inferno of panic.

“Thorin!” Bilbo interjected, the words wrenched out as though they had been physically pulled from his chest. His voice was too high, too thin, but suddenly everyone in the room was turning to face him. Suddenly _Thorin_ was turning to face him, practically leaning over him because his throne was so close, and Bilbo could feel the unreadable intensity in his gaze. Knew that Thorin was close enough to touch him if he wanted to.  

He swallowed hard, meeting Thorin's gaze, trying to find the right words amidst the buzzing in his ears.

“My king,” Bilbo started again, enunciating the words carefully, because Bilbo using his proper title in public almost always made something heated and satisfied flicker in Thorin's eyes.

He let out an unsteady huff of air, choosing his words carefully.

“Would it not be... more advantageous to allow them to keep at least some of the grain for the winter?” Bilbo saw Thorin's chin rise up in disdain and hastened to continue, raising his hands in the air palm-outward. “Not much! Just... enough for them to survive.” He let out an unsteady laugh, trying very hard not to stammer. “Or else who will sow our crops come spring?”

The silence that followed lasted for so long it almost felt like a thickening barrier between them. Bilbo could feel Bard's eyes trained on him, could feel the weight of all the gazes in the room on his shoulders. He did not turn, did not look. Just kept holding Thorin's eyes as steadily as he could during the long pause that followed, trying to smooth his own expression into something neutral, something calm. Bilbo was tremendously conscious of just how wrong this could go, how _unpredictable_ Thorin was now. His mind flickered to Dain, to Kili.

_To Bofur,_ a voice in his head whispered. He silenced it quickly.

Thorin still hadn't said anything, hadn't even _blinked_ , and Bilbo was mentally steeling himself for the inevitable outburst –

—before the hard blankness of Thorin's face was suddenly shattered by a tiny, crooked smile.

Bilbo blinked and Thorin chuckled, actually _chuckled_ , making his advisers smile uneasily in response.

“My Consort is so fond of his little comforts,” said Thorin, his voice low and fond and his eyes affectionate. He reached out a hand and ran his fingers through Bilbo’s gem-laden hair, lingering on the places where the citrines were nestled in his curls. “Are you worried about not having your warm bread in the spring?”

Bilbo said nothing, just held his gaze. Just kept looking into those pale blue of his eyes, too intense, too fixated. So very different than another Thorin he remembered from so long ago it felt like another lifetime.

Hand still resting in Bilbo's hair, Thorin turned back to Bard with a smirk. “You will be allowed half the grain you requested,” he said magnanimously, brushing his thumb against the point of Bilbo's ear. Bilbo bit his lip. “Your people will have to make do; nothing is more important than my army. Remember this mercy.”

When Bilbo turned back to glance at Bard, Thorin's hand still resting gently in his hair, it was just in time to see look of helpless gratitude in Bard's eyes as he nodded hard to accept the deal. Bard glanced at Bilbo, held his eyes for a fraction of a second. Gave him an almost imperceptible nod, and Bilbo did not risk responding in kind.

As soon as Bard was marched out of the hall, Bilbo tried to sit back in his chair – only to feel Thorin's hand tightening at the back of his neck.

“There will be no more court today,” said Thorin, and the finality and command in his voice left no room for arguments. Bilbo could see his advisers nodding their heads out of the corner of his eyes, was able to catch a glance of the sickly-pale look on Fili's face before Thorin stood up next to him. His fingertips dragged along the back of Bilbo’s neck before they were gone again.

“Balin,” said Thorin, the word a command. He nodded at Bilbo before marching out of the throne room, his long fur-trimmed cloak just barely dragging on the floor behind him.

As soon as his back was turned, Bilbo could not stop himself from letting out a shuddering breath. He slumped slightly in his seat, reaching up to cradle the side of his face with his hand. He was still staring straight ahead, heart pounding in his chest as though he had just fought a battle, when Balin appeared in front of him.

“Come on, laddie,” said Balin, looking tired and worn and very, very old. He automatically reached out a hard to help Bilbo down from the small throne before he caught himself midway through the motion, his hand stilling in mid-air before he lowered it slowly to his side. Bilbo was used to that, by now; people being afraid to touch him without Thorin’s permission. Balin gave him an apologetic look. “I imagine he wants you in his rooms.”

For a half second, Bilbo allowed his eyes to flutter shut – and for a moment all he could see was the magnificent greens and yellows of the Shire. The gently-rolling hills, the smell of grass and freshly-tilled earth, the comfort of his chair by the roaring fireplace in winter.

He gave his head a shake, making the gems chime gently in his hair, and forced his own eyes open again.

“Yes,” said Bilbo tiredly, giving Balin an empty half-smile.After a moment, he stood. “Yes, I imagine he does.”

 

\---

 

The first time Thorin put on the ring, it did not make him invisible.

That probably should have been the first indication.

Or perhaps it should have been how fixated Thorin became on the idea of seeing the ring again after that first time, the time Bilbo let it slip through a hole in his pocket and fall to the ground in front of him. (Stupid, stupid, so _unbelievably_ stupid, and if Bilbo lives to be a hundred and fifty he will never be able to stop regretting that day.)

Perhaps it should have been the way he physically fought Bilbo to take the ring from him the night after Bard slayed the dragon, violently wrenching it out of his hands amidst Bilbo's shrieking  clawing _wailing_ protestations. The way Thorin forced Bilbo to the ground and kept him there, kneeling on his back to keep him pinned while he slipped the ring on his finger. 

It was such a small thing. Such a silly, ridiculous little thing.

It did not make him invisible.

It made him something else, instead.

 

\--

 

Being alone with Thorin was worse, in some ways, than being with him in public.

Logically, Bilbo supposed he should feel the opposite. Thorin was so much more frightening when he was around other people; so much more aggressive and dangerous.  Prepared to stamp out treachery and resistance before it could even cross anyone’s mind. Willing to let the rest of the world burn if it meant the protection of his kingdom, of his treasures. Of his power.

Even before the reality of the ring had truly begun to set in – back when Thorin’s change in behaviour had been at all comprehensible, at all _him_ , before Bilbo had realized just how inescapable his situation was – Bilbo had still hated the pomp and bluster of being at the centre of Erebor’s political world. He had hated being on display, being dressed up and shown off like a pretty ornament that visiting kings and lords could look at and admire but never, _ever_ touch.

Still, though. ~~~~

It was only in the privacy of their chambers (the rooms Thorin’s grandfather had once occupied, the rooms Bilbo had never once been asked if he wanted to live in) that Thorin ever allowed himself to relax, even if it was only the smallest amount. It was only in private that Thorin would speak the words he believed to be kind, loving.

It made it so much easier for Bilbo to close his eyes and remember a man whose touch was so gentle it made his heart ache. A Thorin who looked at him softly and had a horrible way with words; the dwarf with the head full of pig-headed pride that always managed to give way to good sense in the end. Who had pressed him down into the bed at Lake Town and ran his lips along Bilbo’s ears, his cheeks, his eyelids with a smile in his voice and real pleasure in his low laughter, moving down to press scratchy kisses along his belly.

In public, Thorin was the King Under the Mountain. Ruthless and hard and unforgiving, like a natural disaster made flesh. In private…

In private it was easier for Bilbo to forget what Thorin was now; what his _life_ was now.

About a week after Bard’s audience during open court, a good few hours after he had dozed off alone in their bed, Bilbo was woken by the movement of a familiar body crawling into bed with him. The bed creaked and depressed under Thorin’s weight, and Bilbo blinked sleepily into awareness. From his position curled up on his side, there wasn’t much that he could see: the richness of their dark blue velvet bedcurtains, the flickering light of a candle in a corner of the dark stone room. He felt Thorin lift up the heavy blankets and slide underneath, tensing ever-so-slightly when he felt a pair of thick, strong arms wrap around his waist.

“Mmm,” Thorin hummed, and Bilbo felt the heat of his breath against the back of his neck. Thorin tugged him closer, easily dragging him in until Bilbo’s back was pressed right up against his warm, broad chest. He felt Thorin nosing along the edge of his ear, knew he could not feign sleep when the touch made him shiver. “ _Ghivashel_ ,” he whispered, something dark and playful in his voice.

Back when they had first reclaimed Erebor (their enemies slaughtered and split open around the mountain’s edge, elves and men and dwarves alike left gaping at the butchery of it), Bilbo had asked Ori what the word meant.

_Treasure of all treasures_ , Ori had told him, something weary and worn and so very _old_ in his voice even then. It had been enough to make Bilbo let out a slightly hysterical giggle, at the time.

“Hello there,” said Bilbo now, feeling fairly alert despite the sudden nature of his awakening. He glanced down quickly at Thorin’s hands resting lovingly on his belly. At the golden band on Thorin’s finger, subtle and innocuous and barely even catching the candlelight. His skin prickled. “Where have you been, then?”

“Meeting with the war cabinet,” Thorin replied, his words a low rumble. He tightened his hold around Bilbo’s waist, pressing a kiss against the exposed line of Bilbo’s neck. A shiver ran up his spine. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

Bilbo frowned, wrinkling his nose. “That’s the third one this month,” he murmured without thinking – and then bit down on his lip sharply when he realized he had spoken the words out loud. After a long moment, though, he heard Thorin let out a quiet laugh behind him.

“Have you missed me so very badly?” Thorin asked, dusky and low and full of want, and Bilbo could actually _feel_ the curve of his smirk against the side of his throat. Thorin slid one of his hands ever-so-slightly lower, the thick pads of his fingers dragging just above the line of his sleep trousers. Bilbo swallowed.

“Of course I have,” said Bilbo automatically, because there really was no other answer to that kind of question.  He let out what he hoped was a genuine-sounding laugh. “There’s hardly much to do while I’m by myself, now, is there?”

“Mmm,” said Thorin, his beard scraping gently against Bilbo’s neck as he nuzzled closer. Then, to his surprise, he felt Thorin slump slightly against his back. “I am sorry, you know. For leaving you so unattended these past weeks.” Thorin shifted his hand, smoothing it reassuringly over the haunch of Bilbo’s thigh. He let out a little breath of dry amusement. “I am afraid the responsibilities of a king are somewhat more rigorous than I might have fantasized about while we were still in exile.”

And that – that right there – was so very close to being _right_ that it made Bilbo’s heart clench painfully. It was so close to being normal, to being _Thorin_ ; to what it had been like between them in those magical in-between weeks. After they had discovered each other but before Smaug, before the battle, before the ring brought everything crumbling down around his ears. He closed his eyes. In that moment, even with everything that had happened, Bilbo could almost _believe_ –

The next moment, he felt Thorin’s arms loosen around his waist – and that was all the warning Bilbo got before the world was lurching around him, sudden and sickening. He felt Thorin’s hand roughly take hold of his shoulder and shove him down so that he was lying on his back, felt a great weight settle on his legs.

And suddenly Thorin was on top of him with his hands tight on Bilbo’s shoulders, pinning him down with a brutal quickness that left Bilbo reeling.

Bilbo stared up at him, taking in the wild mess of his hair, the way Thorin’s eyes were shining too bright for the dim lighting. He did not try to squirm or panic or babble out nonsense words; the instinct to _stay still_ and _don’t move_ too ingrained for that. Instead, he lay carefully still, looking up at Thorin as calmly as he could.  

“The ambassador from the Iron Hills was staring at you today,” said Thorin, his voice heavy with intensity and his eyes fixed on Bilbo. He felt Thorin’s hands tighten on his shoulders, and it was impossible to tell whether it was smug pleasure or something more dangerous dripping from his voice. “During dinner in the hall. He could not take his eyes off you. Your curls, your mouth, your stature – he liked what he saw. He _wanted_ you.”

The weight of Thorin’s far heavier body was starting to make Bilbo’s legs ache, but he did not speak. There was no panic clutching at his chest, no fight or flight instinct to batter down.

“He cannot have you, though,” Thorin said with great satisfaction, a crazed smile edging at his mouth. Bilbo could feel the warmth of Thorin’s breath on his mouth, he was leaning in so close. He watched Thorin run his eyes over Bilbo’s mouth, the lines of his neck. Flickering down to the patch of collar bone exposed by his skewed night shirt. “No one can. Just me. No one else gets to touch you, to _keep_ you like I do.”

Thorin did this sometimes, ever since he took the ring. Became fixated and wound tight and just a little too rough, coming close to violating the implicit promise of _if you do as I say, I will not hurt you_ that still held true even after all that had happened over the past year.

Bilbo had long become familiar with his moods. It was impossible to control him when he got like this, but Bilbo had the most practice of all of them with guiding his actions, at diffusing Thorin’s anger and fixation and rage – or at least funnelling it into something less harmful.

Bilbo just kept staring up evenly into the pale blue of Thorin’s eyes.

“No,” said Bilbo, quiet and still and reassuring, looking up into Thorin’s eyes without blinking. For a moment, Thorin’s hand that wore the ring seemed to grow a hundred times heavier against his shoulder. Slowly, very slowly, Bilbo reached up – Thorin loosened his grip as he did so, allowing him to move – and carded a hand through Thorin’s hair. “No, Thorin. Nobody else.”

There was a long, heavy pause while Thorin stared down at him. His face was oddly slack, his eyes unfocused, as though he could not even see who Bilbo _was_ –

— before Thorin blinked, startling, and the spell was shattered.

“That is why I must keep you safe,” said Thorin, the words coming out all in a rush as though to fill the silence. He looked unsettled, harried. He shifted, moving so that his weight was off Bilbo’s legs, and then cupped Bilbo’s face in his hand, looking at him as though imploring him to listen. “You understand that, do you not? There are people who want to take you away and I cannot let them. I _will_ not let them have you.”

“I know,” said Bilbo softly, giving Thorin a little half smile. “It’s quite all right, love. I know.” He moved his gaze from Thorin to the empty patch of bed beside him, then back again. Some part of him was relaxing, uncoiling, but he knew well enough not to let any of it show on the surface. “Why don’t you come down here, then?”

With a shaky nod, as though uncertain what had just happened, Thorin climbed off and lay down next to him, curling his much larger body around Bilbo’s own. He slung a thick arm over Bilbo’s waist, proprietary and protective and searching for safety all at once. Bilbo felt Thorin bury his face in the nape of his neck, nosing in close and tightening the arm around his waist.

“Shhh,” said Bilbo softly, his stomach twisting slightly at the sight of the ring shining dully on the hand Thorin had wrapped around his stomach. He patted Thorin’s arm absently, relieved that for at least one more time, one more day, he could still hold Thorin back. He hesitated for a moment, something tightening in the bit of his belly as he realized that this might just be the opportunity he’s been waiting for; the chance to bring up something Thorin would not like to hear while the king was still shaken and unnerved. Bilbo steeled himself.

“I’ve been thinking about Kili quite a lot lately, you know.”

Thorin’s arm immediately tightened around his waist. “My nephew is a traitor,” said Thorin automatically, but with less vehemence than he might have done so otherwise. His face was still pressed into the back of Bilbo’s neck. “It is only by your mercy that he still lives.”

_I am very much aware of that_ , thought Bilbo distractedly, his mind flashing to how desperately he had had to beg, to _plead_ for Kili’s life. To justify keeping him alive, to rationalize his perceived betrayal.

— _he was bewitched, Thorin, he was bewitched, you know elves can do that, can make people think things that aren’t true. He is Fili’s brother, traitor or not, and you need Fili as an heir, don’t you? And he’ll never cooperate if you kill him, he’ll never forgive you, just please don’t kill him, please keep him alive, for me, Thorin, for me,_ please _–_

Bilbo shook his head, persisting. “I know that,” he said quietly. “But… I do not believe he is beyond saving.”

“He makes trouble in the dungeons,” said Thorin, almost _petulant_ , and Bilbo only had to half-force a laugh at that.

“Thorin, he is your kin. Of _course_ he makes trouble in the dungeons.”

To his surprise, Thorin actually _laughed_ at that; sudden and low and unexpected, a minute little rumble against the back of Bilbo’s neck. Bilbo felt confidence welling up inside him; he swallowed, preparing to strike.

“He was like a nephew to me too, once,” said Bilbo, his voice intentionally quiet. His eyes darted over his shoulder quickly to see how Thorin was responding – silent, stoic – before flitting back to the space in front of him again. “I suppose… I pity him.”

There was a long pause at that, Bilbo trying to relax himself so that he was not stiff and expectant in Thorin’s arms. He waited for a response for a very long time before –

“I will not release him,” said Thorin with conviction, and Bilbo felt his heart plummet. He closed his eyes in defeat, silently cursing himself for not knowing how to make this work. For not being _good enough_ at this when it counted. After a moment, however, Thorin continued. “But I shall permit you to visit him in his cell if that is something you desire.”

Real, genuine gratitude burst like fireworks in Bilbo’s chest. He clung to Thorin’s arm, nodding his head hard. “Yes, that’s – I would love that, yes.” A beat. “Thank you.”

Behind him, Thorin let out a dry little laugh. “I can be merciful, as you have said,” he whispered, pressing a kiss against Bilbo’s curls. “Enough talk of this. He has wasted enough of our time as it is.” He stroked a hand over Bilbo’s stomach; Bilbo shivered lightly at the touch. “Sleep, _sanâzyung_. It is time for sleep now.”

With a nod, Bilbo let out a shaky breath and attempted to relax himself, to settle into Thorin’s arms in the way that had felt so natural so long ago. He held the tonight’s victory close to his chest, trying to make the rest of his mind go blank. He closed his eyes.

Thorin’s arm was a heavy, constant weight holding him down throughout the night.

 

 

\--

 

 

Thorin should have died that day on the battlefield.

Bilbo had been there; he had _seen_. Sprawled on the ground next to Kili and Fili, their armour caved in and Fili’s golden hair clotted thick with blood, Kili with two arrows in his leg and his eyes rolling back into his head.

And Thorin, standing in front of them. Shielding them from harm. Tall and broad and silhouetted against the rising sun as an endless flood of orcs surged over the hill toward him.

In that moment, Bilbo had known – he had just _known_ – that there were too many of them. He had clutched at his broken arm, at the bleeding slash in his side, and seen it all playing out behind his eyelids. It was only a matter of time before Thorin was felled by a dagger to the back, an arrow to the heart, a sword plunged into his stomach and buried up to the hilt. His whole body numb with pain and fear, Bilbo had known with still certainty that there was no way any of them were getting out of the battlefield alive.

Instead, Thorin had cut through the endless onslaught of bodies as though he was not capable of growing tired. Had battled through the puncture of arrows and the sting of orcish blades through his flesh, had hacked and slashed with such ferocity that the world had seemed to vibrate around him, a sucking pulling _throbbing_ energy that rolled off him like waves. He had been devastation incarnate, and all Bilbo had been able to do was cling to the boys and _watch_. 

And the whole time the ring had glowed red and golden, burning and shining and making the air shimmer around it as Thorin dealt out his devastation.

By the time it was over, grotesquely disfigured bodies laid strewn around them in haphazard mounds. Some of them cleaved in two and others with their skulls caved in, a chaos of butchery the likes of which Bilbo had never even contemplated before. By all rights, the mess of bodies around him should’ve what made Bilbo recoil – should’ve been what made him _tremble_. 

But the only thing Bilbo had been able to see was Thorin. Tall and proud and dripping blood amidst the carnage, the ring still glowing softly on his finger.

 

\--

 

The heavy iron door opened with a loud, drawn-out creak. Bilbo shivered at the cold as he stepped over the threshold, gripping the leather bag slung over his shoulder tightly and glancing around quickly to take in the cell.

It was a simple room, stark without being bare.  A cell for a prince as much as it was a cell for a traitor, just as Bilbo remembered it from the one other time he had been permitted to visit immediately in the wake of Kili’s imprisonment. There was a single bed pushed up against the right-hand wall, a chair. A chamber pot in the corner and a table with a small basin of water and a tray of food sitting on top of it. A single crackling torch hung on the wall, and a very small hearth filled the room with a pale parody of light and warmth.

As soon as he stepped inside, Bilbo’s eyes darted over to the dwarf-shaped figure sitting on the bed. Curled in on himself and wrapped up in blankets, a mess of straggling dark hair all that was visible except for his hands.

His heart speeding up, Bilbo took a step inside – before he heard the sound of iron boots hitting the stone floor behind him. He turned and saw that one of the guards had followed him into the cell; a dwarf with muddy brown hair and an untamed beard who was moving to close the door with all three of them inside. Bilbo felt a jolt of quiet panic run up his spine.

“No, you don’t need to –” he started, feeling flustered energy bubbling up in his chest – before he consciously silenced himself, inhaling and letting the air out slowly. “I wish to be left alone with him,” he said, firm but just a little higher than his voice usually was, only the slightest tremor in the words.

The guard stared at him. He was a rugged dwarf, bulky and broad and just a little thick around the middle. He was not wearing his helmet, and Bilbo could see that his hair mostly flowed loose except for the little braids along the sides. His beads were made of iron.

“I don’t think –” the guard began uncertainly, but he stopped when Bilbo placed his hands on his hips.

“Now you listen here,” Bilbo scolded him, puffing out his chest and glaring at the guard as though daring him to challenge him. He raised a finger in the air, pointing it at him aggressively for emphasis. “I am the Consort of Erebor, the husband of the King Under the Mountain, and if I say that I wish to be left alone with him? Then you had _best be leaving me alone with him_.” He sniffed, twitching his nose. “Do you understand?”

For a moment, the guard hesitated, blinking. His eyes seemed to dart down to the thick silver ring that Bilbo wore on his thumb, the only finger big enough to keep it on. The one Thorin had pressed into his hands after the battle; the one with the rune for Thorin’s family name carved along the inside. The guard looked up at him again, looking somewhat shaken.

“I’ll… be right outside,” the guard announced uneasily, taking a few slow steps backward until he was out of the cell. His eyes briefly darted over to Kili. “Call if you have need of me,” he said, before pulling the door closed. Bilbo could hear the sound of the key turning in the lock, and he relaxed a little, feeling more than a little frayed around the edges.

A distracted, strained chuckle came from the direction of the bed.

With a jolt, Bilbo turned – and found Kili looking at him from his seat on the bed. He had pulled the blankets down so that they no longer obscured his face, but to Bilbo the sight of him was a mixed blessing. Kili’s skin looked sickly-pale, sallow, seeming to stretch too thin across his face. His eyes were focused and sharp – good, it meant that he likely had not sustained any wounds to the head in his last round of beatings – but at the same time there was something tense and pained in his expression. 

“That was impressive, actually,” said Kili thinly. He smiled, but it was a half-hearted thing. Bilbo quickly went over to him, halting awkwardly when he got to the edge of the bed.

“Kili,” he said, reaching out to rest a hand on Kili’s knee before second-guessing himself and snatching the hand back in mid-air, flexing his fingers. There was a beat. “Are you –?”

“All right?” Kili finished for him. He laughed, low and shallow, then winced at the movement. “I’ve been better.”

“Are you hurt?” said Bilbo, trying to make the words sound like a command instead of a question. When Kili just shrugged, Bilbo let out a huff of frustrated air. “Let me see,” he demanded, hoping that he would not have to fight for the right to examine him.  

Fortunately, though, Kili seemed willing enough to let Bilbo do as he pleased. Wincing, Kili pushed the blanket off his shoulders, letting the fabric pool around his middle. He grimaced again when he started to take off his filthy grey linen shirt. Bilbo moved to help him, tugging it over his shoulders as gently as he could. The fabric seemed to stick to his back, though, and Kili hissed in pain when they actually managed to pull it free. Bilbo discarded the shirt without looking at it, turning back to Kili – before sucking in a horrified breath.

The flesh of Kili’s back was a mess of raw flesh and crusted blood, lined with angry red lacerations from where something – a whip, Bilbo thought, mesmerised at the sight of it – had struck him. Parts of it were crusted over with an oozing yellow puss. Bilbo pushed down a shudder, trying hard not to be squeamish. His stomach roiled despite his efforts.  

“Oh,” said Bilbo weakly, then gave his head a shake. “I – yes, right. Of course. I, um.” He swallowed. “I had planned for this, just let me…”

He trailed off as he shucked his leather bag off his shoulder, rummaging through it until he found what he was looking for:  a small pot of salve, a roll of thick bandages, and a few loose rags. Bilbo helped to ease Kili down slowly so that he was lying on his stomach, then walked over to the table to grab the basin of water. His hands were shaking badly enough that some of its contents slopped over the sides.

“All right,” he said, gentle and matter-of-fact as he sat down on the bed next to Kili’s prone body, as he settled the basin in his lap and soaked one of the cloths in the water before wringing it out. “This might hurt a little. Just… try not to move.”

Kili nodded, his face still pressed into the bed. Then Bilbo took a deep breath, tried to steady his hands, and began to clean the wounds.

It was slow work, washing one patch of skin at a time before ringing the cloth clean again, moving gradually towards the biggest mess of wounds at the centre of Kili’s back. The clear water quickly turned pink and then red, and Bilbo was obscurely reminded of polishing the wooden floors at Bag End: starting in one corner and moving throughout the room, slowly watching the space transform in front of him. At first Kili winced and inhaled sharply whenever the cloth touched his back, but after a while he seemed to grow used to the pain. Bilbo dragged the wet cloth over skin as gently as he could, scrunching up his nose in concentration.

“You look more than a bit grander than on your last visit,” said Kili wryly after a long pause, once Bilbo was about a third of the way done washing his wounds. Bilbo started at the sound of his voice, then glanced down at his clothes as though seeing them for the first time.

“Oh,” said Bilbo, giving a little shrug before remembering that Kili could not really see him. He wore dark green robes today, the edges lined with subtle silver and mother of pearl beading. The mithril shirt was peeking out from the gap at his collar again, and he was wearing a pair of thick well-made pants underneath that cut off just below the knee. “I don’t much notice anymore, honestly. It’s –”

He cut himself off abruptly, his hand stilling on Kili’s back before he could finish the thought. One of his curls fell into his eyes and he tossed his head back lightly to get it out of the way. “It’s Thorin,” he finished lamely as an explanation, and when Kili’s whole body tensed beneath his fingers he knew it was not from the pain. Bilbo bit his lip, continuing his task in silence for a few minutes.

He was more than two-thirds through cleaning the wounds when Kili spoke again.

“How is my brother?” he asked softly, his voice tense and strained in a way that pain had not been able to make him sound. “My mother?”

Bilbo felt his words like a dull blow to the chest, sinking grief pulling at his stomach. He narrowed in on watching his hand swipe the cloth across Kili’s wounds, sopping up blood and leaving raw red skin behind. The light was too dim for him to catch every patch of blood, but he thought he was doing a fine job, considering. He took a deep breath.

“Physically, they’re just fine,” Bilbo replied, letting out a large huff of air. “Your mother… heavens above, your _mother_ , Kili. I’ve never seen someone so staunch and regal under fire.” He shook his head, rinsing the cloth in the basin. “I wish I knew how she does it. But… she is rage, beneath. Cold and hard.” He gave Kili’s hand a squeeze with his unbloodied hand. “She worries about you.”

Kili nodded, his eyes still pressed shut against the bed. He seemed to waver, was though uncertain he wanted to know the answer to the next question. “And… my brother?”

Biting his lip, Bilbo wiped away the last of the matted blood, rinsing the cloth out one last time before he stood and placed it and the basin back on the table. He screwed open the pot of salve and returned to his place on the bed, busying himself with the work of applying it.

“I got this from Oin, you know,” he said, aware that he was stalling and not quite how to actually stop. “I had to lie about what I wanted it for, of course.” That had been rather embarrassing, actually. Bilbo frowned. “I don’t believe he and his brother truly understand what’s been going on. They’ve been rather sheltered from the worst of it, you see. A lot of people support Thorin these days.”

“Bilbo,” said Kili, quietly but firmly. He turned his head so that he was able to crane his neck to look Bilbo in the eye, silencing anything else Bilbo might have said. “Fili. How is he.”

With a grimace, Bilbo let out a little sigh. “He is… not well.” He rushed to elaborate when Kili tensed beneath him, as though preparing to fight some phantom threat. “He’s not hurt, not that way. Just… he is sick with worry for you, always, and cannot hide it. I think he’s angry with himself that it’s you down here and not him. He’s sullen, and aggressive, and he grows more unpredictable every day.” Bilbo shook his head, smoothing the last of the salve over Kili’s back before screwing the pot closed again. “And yet he cannot do anything. Neither of them can.”

_Because you are here_. While not spoken out loud, the words rang clearly in the silence.  _Because you can be hurt worse than this, and will be if they disobey._

_Because they love you too much to let that happen._

“Kili,” said Bilbo, low and intense and full of conviction. In front of him, Kili was pulling himself up into a sitting position, letting the salve dry before Bilbo tried his hand at bandaging it. He did not look Bilbo in the eye, his head hanging low. “Kili, I have been working on him. I got him to let me down here, didn’t I? I got him to let me see you.” His words sped up, gaining momentum as he went. “I think if you repent, I can convince him to release you. You would get to see your mother again, and your brother. You could come back up and live with us, and you wouldn’t have to be hurt like this anymore. You could be with your brother.” He huffed out a breath of air, barrelling towards his conclusion. “All you would have to do is apologize, and I really think –”

With no warning at all, Kili choked out a harsh, broken-sounding noise. Bilbo blinked in surprise and fell silent, staring at him without speaking. He was staring down at the bed with his dark hair falling in front of his face so that Bilbo could not properly see his eyes, but after a moment he realized that something was dripping down off his chin. With a horrible lurch, Bilbo realized that Kili was _crying_.

“He killed her, Bilbo,” Kili whispered, his voice cracking violently on the second word. He was shaking now, whole-body shudders that left him lurching and rocking subtly in his seat, clutching at himself with his arms. “She was only here to help us and he _killed_ her.”

Bilbo could not speak, could not _breathe_ , and there was nothing he could say that would make Kili feel better. Not in the face of such personal devastation.

For an awful, sickening moment, Bilbo could see all of it playing out again in his mind’s eye. The way that elf woman had stared at Kili with quiet desperation in her eyes as the dwarven guards forced her to her knees. The way Kili had sobbed and begged and thrashed frantically, _uselessly_ against his restraints when the sword came down on the back of her neck.

“I know,” sad Bilbo inadequately, lacing his fingers together on his lap and squeezing them too tight. “I know he did.” For a second, he could feel Bofur’s mischievous grin tugging at the edges of his mind, some of the unrelenting grief that he could never quite conquer rushing in in its wake. He thought about Kili’s face, young and unmarred and full of vibrant energy the way it always used to be. The little smile Thorin would give him whenever he thought Bilbo was being ridiculous but was enjoying watching him talk himself out.

A glint of gold flashed behind Bilbo’s eyes, abrupt and startling him right to his core. He shook his head, pushing the thoughts aside.

“I cannot do it,” said Kili, his voice hollow and choked. He scrubbed with his eyes with dirty hands, sniffing hard and curling in on himself as he did so. “I cannot – _debase_ myself like that, as though I was the one who did something wrong. As though he didn’t –” he cut himself off with a pinched expression, his hands shaking hard. After a moment, he let out a shaky breath. “Even if I did apologize, I doubt he would let me return. And what would happen if I did? Would he welcome me back to his side with open arms, act as though none of it had ever happened?” He shook his head, and when he looked up Bilbo saw that his eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot – but still full of fire. Still full of disobedience, and Bilbo could feel his heart sinking in his chest. “I would kill him before I would grovel at his feet, Bilbo. I _would_.”

For a moment, Bilbo felt a great rush of _anger_ in his chest. At the stubbornness of dwarves, at the entire line of Durin, at how Kili was acting _exactly_ like Thorin would have done, before all of this happened. Digging his heels into the ground even though it was hurting him, even though it was hurting everyone, even though Bilbo had worked so hard to get a chance to come down here at all, to bring Thorin around. To _save_ him.

Then he remembered the expression on Kili’s face when the sword had come down on the elf woman’s neck. The devastated, disbelieving look – as though, no matter what his uncle had said, he never truly believed he would let it come to this. After a long, drawn-out moment, Bilbo nodded.

“All right,” he said quietly, the dull ache of defeat swelling in his chest. He closed his eyes, shaking his head. “All right.”

Kili nodded harshly, arms wrapped tight around himself.

“I’ll bandage you up before I leave,” Bilbo told him, standing up and walking over to his leather bag. He did not look Kili in the eye. “I brought you a fresh set of clothes, too, and some rations. I imagined they weren’t feeding you as well as they should be down here.”

Bilbo paused, swallowing hard before he reached into the bag and closed his hand around a smooth, rounded shape. He tightened his fingers around it, slowly pulling it out of his bag and holding it in the palm of his hand. The guard would be returning soon. He glanced over at the door uneasily.

“Before I leave,” said Bilbo, swallowing hard and awkwardly shuffling his feet. “Your… your mother asked that I bring you something.” He held out his hand, uncurling his fingers, presenting it to Kili on the flat of his palm.

The talisman was small and smooth, the carved runs standing out as the light played over the stone and caught at along the carved edges of the words. The stone had been dark inside Bilbo’s bag, but now in the light it seemed to have an iridescent quality about it.

Bilbo had seen Kili turning the rune-stone over in his hands a number of times throughout the journey; right before Bilbo rescued him and the others from Thranduil’s prison, after the elf woman had brought him back from near-death from the poisoned blade, on the night before the battle. But Bilbo had not been able to read it, then. Had not had any occasion to study the language of the dwarves, to learn what the markings meant.

He could understand it now, though. The solid dark lines were rent with scratches and chips, but the words stood out, clear and legible, along the stone.

_Return to me_.

For a long time, Kili stared at the talisman as though unable to comprehend it, unable to wrap his head around its existence in this place. After a while he finally reached out and closed his hand over it, plucking it off Bilbo’s palm and turning it over in his hand.

He ran his eyes over the smooth stone as though barely able to see it – until he very slowly began to shake. Great, heaving shudders that gave way to choked-off sobs until he was crashing in on himself, tightening his hand around the stone and holding it against his chest, unselfconscious and uncaring in his grief.

After a while, Bilbo sat down next to him without speaking. He did not reach out, did not try to comfort him. Did not try to say anything to make it better. He just sat with his hands in his lap, a physical presence next to him. Silent in his understanding.

 

\--

 

 

The chill of the winter night was still clinging to the mountain’s stone halls when Bilbo walked to breakfast the next morning. The bed had been empty when he woke up – Thorin off on some task or other – which meant being escorted from one room in the palace to another by a small cluster of guards.

It was not as though he had ever been allowed to wander _unrestricted_ through Erebor’s halls, per se, but at least in the beginning he had been given a little more freedom. There had been a time when Bilbo had met with Bofur for tea every week or two, when every so often he had visited Bifur at his toy shop and Bombur in the kitchens and Dori at his loom in the Guild Quarter.

Those days were long over now.

“Come on, then,” Dwalin grunted impatiently, throwing a glance over his shoulder at Bilbo as though glaring at him could make him walk faster. “My lord,” he said after a too-long pause, turning so that he was facing straight ahead again as he marched Bilbo down the hall.

It didn’t sting anymore, the way Dwalin spoke to him. The disrespect in his voice, the suspicious looks he threw Bilbo’s way; never when Thorin was looking, of course, but nearly always the rest of the time. As though he half-expected Bilbo to make a bolt for the door at any moment.

As though he could not remember a time when the two of them had been friends.

“Yes, yes,” Bilbo muttered distractedly, intentionally playing up his own dottiness. He made sure to trip a little on the fabric of his long robes as he walked, staring down at the ground afterwards as though he was embarrassed at the stumble. “Coming, coming.”

There were always _reasons_ for the guards, of course. There were malicious spies from the woodland realm lurking around every corner; the kingdom was seething with traitors, all of them just waiting to strike; there had been threats made upon the throne, and it was not safe for him to travel alone.

There were always _reasons_ Bilbo could not walk the corridors of Erebor by himself anymore; why Dwalin, and his guards were a constant presence behind him in the hallways when Thorin was not by his side. There was a reason that his and Thorin’s chambers locked from both the inside and the outside, why Thorin wore the only key on a silver chain around his neck – a weak echo of the one he used to wear during their journey.

(No one ever mentioned the time he had smuggled himself out of the mountain in an empty cart and made it halfway to Dale before Thorin and his guards caught up with him. Balin had helped with that, though no one but Bilbo knew it.

He could still remember the glint of the sword as Thorin hacked clean through the cartdriver’s neck, raving about _kidnapping_ and _burglary_ and _stealing what was his_.

People knew better than to ever, ever mention that.)

The room the royal family used for private meals was far too large for the small number of people who used it, the vaulting stone ceilings so tall that the light from the burning wall sconces could not reach them. It left the ceiling above them dark and fathomless, a heavy cloud hanging over their heads.  As soon Bilbo stepped through the stone entranceway, he noticed that the cavernous room had only two occupants, both of whom were sitting together on either side of one end of the long table. With a nod to Bilbo, Dwalin and his underlings wordlessly joined their counterparts in standing guard around the room’s perimeter.

“Good morning,” said Bilbo as he walked towards the table, the sombre smile on his face pulling uncomfortably at the edges of his mouth. Fili was pale, eyes sunken in and his beard a tangled mess on his face, but he straightened up as soon as Bilbo spoke and stared at him with wild eyes. Sitting across the table from him, Dis caught Bilbo’s gaze and gave him a short nod, full of that pragmatic grace that always seemed to lend her an air of calm collectedness.

Bilbo pulled out a chair and sat down in the seat next to Fili, in the chair that would be next to Thorin if the king’s seat at the head of the table had not been empty. He settled himself in, back straight and smoothing out his clothes, catching Dis’s even gaze from across the table.

 “Good morning indeed, Master Baggins,” said Dis shortly, her pale blue eyes full of composure. Her black hair was styled so ornately that Bilbo assumed must have taken the help of at least two handmaidens to attain, each side of her beard pulled into a loose braid and held with a mithril bead. The stiffness of her words was belied by the way she reached out and briefly placed her hand over his own, giving it a squeeze before setting it back in her lap once more.

Bilbo recognized it for what it was; a thank-you, even if the words could not be spoken. He nodded silently, giving her hand a squeeze in return.

“Is Thorin coming?” asked Bilbo carefully as Dis drew her hand back, glancing at the main entranceway. He nodded politely to the stout dwarven serving girl who came forward to fill his goblet with water, tremendously aware of how many people were close enough to hear their conversation right now. Dis gave him a significant glance, opening her mouth to speak.

“He’s with his war cabinet,” came Fili’s voice next to him, cutting her off, and Bilbo jumped slightly in his seat before turning to look at him. Fili’s hair was limp, the colour of hay, but he was staring at Bilbo with a look of intense fixation. Bilbo frowned at him.

“Again?” he asked quietly, wrinkling his nose. War cabinet meetings had been a regular part of ruling Erebor since the beginning, and they had grown even more frequent ever since the uprising from Dale eight months ago. But they had never been quite so _constant_ before, and now it seemed as though Thorin was attending the councils every other day.

Fili shrugged, an anxious movement, and as soon as the servant girl moved away his hand was darting out, wrapping around Bilbo’s velvet-clad arm, holding him tight. Bilbo froze, took a careful look around, and then very slowly turned to face him.

“How is he?” Fili asked under his breath, a slightly frantic whisper as he clung to Bilbo’s arm. Bilbo let out a sigh.

“Stubborn,” he said in explanation, and Fili’s hand was beginning to loosen on his arm now. He was aware of the fact that Dis was looking at him with great intensity, although her body language had not changed at all. Bilbo shook his head. “Albeit not without good reason.” He glanced up at Dis. “I gave it to him,” he said quietly, and she relaxed infinitesimally.

Fili would not relent, however. “Was he hurt? Are they feeding him well?”

Bilbo twitched his nose, extricating Fili’s hand from his arm and pointedly placing it on the table instead. Thorin was not usually bothered by Dis and Fili giving Bilbo fleeting, familial touches – he seemed to like the idea of Bilbo being accepted as part of the family despite how broken and resentful his family had become – but now was not the time to risk it. He shrugged.

“They seem to be giving him enough food, though… though he was whipped a few days ago for disobedience.” He rushed to keep talking as Fili got a murderous look in his eye, as Dis grew so stiff she was practically vibrating with the effort of it. “I soothed his hurts and brought him food, don’t you worry. He’s as good as he can be, right now. Though…” Bilbo trailed off, furrowing his brow in frustration. “He refuses to say he’s sorry to Thorin. I told him it was the best bet for getting him out of there, but –”

“He was right to refuse,” said Fili in a rush, the words tumbling over themselves in their haste to escape from his mouth. Dis gave him a warning look from across the table, shaking her head and making the mithril beads in her beard sway, but he paid her no mind. “Kili has done nothing wrong, has done _no one_ any harm, and in return he – he was almost –”

Fili seemed to lose the ability to speak for a moment, the fury was making him shake so badly. Looking at him, it occurred to Bilbo just how _bad_ he looked, in comparison to how he used to be. It was as though the proud, playful young man had melted away until there were only the bare bones of him left, all sickly-pale skin and dark circles under his eyes. His hair was unbraided, lank and loose around his face, but his pale eyes burned with something dark and furious that made Bilbo want to look away.

“He is alive, at least,” said Bilbo softly, glancing quickly around the room. Trying to see who might be listening. “Fili. At least he is alive.”

_There is hope, at least, for the living._ It was not a happy thought, but neither was it truly broken, and Bilbo clung to it within the confines of his mind.

Fili, however, was shaking his head. He had grown suddenly very silent, very still, and for a moment Bilbo actually felt _skittish_ , as though he was frightened of what Fili might do next. He forced the feeling down, holding Fili’s gaze, tremendously conscious of Dis’s eyes on him from across the table.

“I hate him,” said Fili quietly, and Bilbo knew they were not talking about Kili anymore. The words were ground out from between clenched teeth, so low and quiet that Bilbo could barely hear him from less than a foot away. Fili’s hands clenched into fists as he held Bilbo’s gaze, as though _imploring_ him to understand. Fili let out a shaky breath, his lip curling, face gaunt, but Bilbo could not look away from his burning eyes.

“I hate him. Do you understand?” Fili said, his words quiet and seething with barely-restrained rage. It was not a question, and Bilbo did not treat it like one. There was something frenetic in Fili’s expression, something unpredictable, and for a moment Bilbo felt a pang for the solidity and sureness of the boy he used to be. “I _hate_ him.”

There was a momentary pause – before Fili looked Bilbo up and down, as though seeing him for the first time. He deflated somewhat, a glimmer of pity flickering in his eyes. “You must hate him more than anyone,” he muttered, still too quiet for anyone else to hear as he turned back to the dining table.

A memory of kind blue eyes and cradling hands and feeling _safe_ wrapped up in strong arms hit him so viscerally it made his head reel, and Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut as though he could block out the world.  Dis and Fili were arguing quietly about something, but their words didn’t make any sense. When he opened his eyes again he stared blankly at the surface of the great stone table, at the way the surface was carved to create the illusion of wood grain.

“I don’t hate him,” said Bilbo softly, almost inaudibly, barely noticing the abrupt way Dis and Fili had abruptly halted their conversation around him. His insides felt empty, echoing. He did not think about murmured Khuzdul or broken smiles or thick fingers stroking roughly over his skin. “I can’t. I don’t…” Bilbo swallowed hard, something numb and empty and fathomless throbbing inside his chest. “I don’t believe I have it in me.”

“What is it you don’t have in you?”

Bilbo started slightly at the sudden intrusion of _Thorin, Thorin, it’s Thorin, **Thorin**_ into their conversation, snapping his head up just in time to watch Thorin take the last few steps before seating himself at the head of the long table, in the chair right next to him. After a beat, Bilbo became aware of the way Dis was clutching her silver spoon so hard the metal was starting to bend; the way Fili had tensed up beside him. They must have noticed his entrance before Bilbo did.

Thorin was dressed formally – he seemed to do that more and more, these days – with the crown of Erebor on his head and intricate braids tucked behind each ear. He wore heavy blue robes stitched through with golden thread a great surcoat lined with thick black fur around his shoulders. His decorative bracers were designed to show off the thick gold band on his finger. There was an impatient look about him, something cagey and guarded in his posture as he settled into his seat.

And really, Bilbo supposed he should feel panicked. Frightened. Instead, he pulled his lips into a stiff-feeling smile and looked up at Thorin with what he hoped very much was a warm expression.

“Breakfast,” said Bilbo as an explanation, cocking his head deliberately to one side. He sat up a little straighter in his seat, adjusting his clothes fastidiously. Playing up old mannerisms. “I’m afraid I simply don’t have it in me to finish it today.”

For a moment, Thorin looked at him with a hint of a sideways smile quirking at the corner of his mouth. “Something must be very wrong with you, then, if you cannot manage to eat,” he said, the joke falling flat as he distractedly reached for a meat pie. There was a pause, all of them sitting there without speaking as the king began to eat.

Sometimes Bilbo could not fathom why, after an entire year of living in Erebor reclaimed, Thorin still made them all assemble like this. As though nothing was _wrong_. As though these meals weren’t always full of bitter silence from Fili and stilted conversation from everyone else. Bilbo picked at his bread slightly uneasily, watching Thorin out of the corner of his eye.

“How is everyone faring this morning?” asked Thorin after a few moments, as though abruptly remembering they were still there. He reached over and placed a large hand on Bilbo’s knee; Bilbo made a non-committal noise in response to the question.

Whatever her personal feelings were, however, Dis was almost invariably the one among them to keep conversation going. She straightened the line of her gown and then took a sip from her goblet, turning to fix her brother with a polite, restrained look. The angular lines of her face always made her look regal, and the black of her hair was particularly striking against the ice-pale blue of her gown.

“Very well, thank you,” said Dis, smoothing her skirts under the table. “I slept well. My new handmaiden is performing her duties admirably.” She caught Fili’s eyes despite his attempts to look away, raising her dark eyebrows pointedly. Fili was hunched over his plate, dragging a crust of bread through the sausage grease on his plate without looking as though he actually intended to eat it. “What’s your plan for the day, my love?”

After a beat, Fili straightened up somewhat and turned his attention minutely to Thorin. Everything about him looked dulled, listless. “I’ll be training with Dwalin today, then meeting with some of the guild representatives about the reconstruction of the main market. Uncle.” The last word came a half-second too late; an afterthought.

Thorin did not seem to notice. He nodded gruffly, swallowing a bite of food before speaking. His free hand was still resting on Bilbo’s knee, a solid and immovable presence. “Admirable use of time. We will need the full force of the kingdom’s productive capacity behind us if we are to keep the Elves from encroaching.”

 Bilbo saw Fili’s eye twitch, but Dis smoothly interjected before he could say anything unwise. “Speaking of which: how was the council, Thorin?” she asked, her voice politely interested but decidedly neutral. Along with Bilbo and Fili, she was one of only three people permitted to address him by his given name.

It always left Bilbo in awe, watching Dis interact with Thorin. She had a way of steering the conversation, getting Thorin onto certain topics without ever looking particularly invested in what he had to say about them.

“It went well enough,” Thorin said, giving his broad shoulders the smallest of shrugs. “Far too many dithering old dwarves on the council for my liking.”  He shook his head, a contemptuous scowl on his face. “We’ll need more dedicated military support if we are to increase raids on the Woodland Realm throughout the winter as planned.”

_Increased raiding on Mirkwood_ , Bilbo thought with a small frown, opening his mouth to speak before closing it abruptly again. He busied himself with rearranging food on his plate.

“Oh?” asked Dis. Thorin gave a quick nod.

“Lord Ginnar son of Grannar will be coming for a diplomatic visit from the Iron Hills for a few months,” Thorin rumbled, leaning back a little in his grand chair. “I want him here for consultation. With all luck, he will provide better counsel than the _shekûnh_ we have now.”

He spat out the Khuzdul word, but Bilbo barely noticed over the uneasy chill running up his spine. Bilbo did not have much opportunity to talk with anyone other than Thorin, but Ginnar son of Grannar was renowned even to him. His cruelty was legendary, spoken about in whispers by kitchen staff and townsfolk alike. They said he headed the army of the Iron Hills with unparalleled ruthlessness; that he would sometimes take doxies back to his estate only for them to disappear without a trace afterwards.

Bilbo had no idea how much of it was true, but he had no desire to find out.

“How generous of him to come and assist us,” said Dis quietly, but even her solidity and calm had been visibly rattled by this particular news. Thorin shook his head, dark amusement plain in his eyes.

“Not generous; _advantageous_ ,” he emphasized, and Bilbo wondered when, exactly, everything had become reduced to exchanges and trades to him. About gold changing hands and favours owed instead of family, or honour, or the good of his people. “I have made sure his visit will be worth his while. I even included a marriage contract in the negotiations.”

“With who?” Fili asked in horror, the first words he had spoken in a long time. Thorin shot him a pleased glance without seeming to notice the interjection came more from a place of disgust than one of curiosity. Fili’s face was contorted into a picture of repulsion; clearly, word of Lord Ginnar’s proclivities had reached him as well.

“Ginnar would not compromise,” said Thorin, a hint of pride in his voice. As though the uncompromising nature of the other party involved made eventual triumph all the more impressive. He hesitated for a moment after that, though, some of his former air of defensiveness coming back to him. “After hearing of the renowned beauty of the House of Ri, he would settle for nothing else. Ori son of Vestri was deemed to be the appropriate choice.”

The stunned silence that met this statement was so profound that it seemed to suck all the air out of the room. Bilbo stared at Thorin in absolute disbelief, his mouth hanging open in unconcealed shock. An image of hands swimming in knitted mittens suddenly came to the forefront of his mind with such force it left him speechless, left him feeling like he was gasping. Bright young eyes and uneven bangs and handwriting so beautiful it always made his heart ache.

_No_ , thought Bilbo, the word repeating itself over and over inside his mind. _No no no no no, not Ori_. _Not our Ori._

There was a loud _clang!_ as a plate clattered to the floor, and it took Bilbo a few shocky moments to realize that it was Fili who had swept out an arm and sent it flying to the ground, not him. His head felt like it was swimming, like his arms and legs were suddenly disconnected from his body.

“You –” Fili choked out, his voice so full of bubbling rage the word was barely comprehensible. Dis was staring at Thorin with her eyes blown wide, and for once she did not seem capable of calming her son down, of stopping him from saying something he might regret. “You—!”

“You _can’t_ ,” Bilbo choked out, partly to stop Fili from saying something he could not take back and partly because he simply couldn’t hold it in any longer.

He turned in his seat and faced Thorin fully, putting his hand on Thorin’s upper arm and moving into his space, frantic to catch Thorin’s eyes, to get some hint as to what he could say to make this nightmare stop happening around him. Thorin would not look at him, though. Would only look straight ahead, as though Bilbo was some pest he could simply ignore.

“Please,” said Bilbo desperately, clinging to Thorin’s arm, all of his pride and composure gone in the face of this. “Thorin, please don’t do this. It’s… it’s _Ori_. A member of the Company, one of the dwarves who reclaimed the mountain.” 

It’s madness, all of it happening too fast and too _openly_. Bilbo has had his suspicions about Bofur – has lied awake at night replaying every moment leading up to Bofur’s conscription into the army immediately after the first uprising in Dale, secretly re-reading the official letter over and over until it was worn and soft around the edges, _we regret to inform you_ , _we regret to inform you_ – but it’s not like he’s ever been able to _prove_ anything. Has never been able to move past the niggling suspicion that it was too contrived, too _staged_ , too convenient for a toymaker to be posted in the frontlines fighting off Dale’s rebellion among none but the most seasoned soldiers.

But whether or not there had been foul play in Bofur’s death, at least it had been _hidden_. At least there had been an attempt at secrecy; an attempt to keep such underhandedness out of the light of day. There had been deniability there, uncertainty.

This was different. This was overt, and official, and in right there in the light of day. This was another one of Erebor’s heroes – who should have been the _safest people in the land_ , after all they had done for this kingdom – being shipped away and gotten rid of and used to seal official contracts, and somehow the _openness_ of it all shook Bilbo right to the core more than anything. Left him reeling and frantic _desperate_ to claw Thorin back from the edge.

He’s done it before, he told himself. Perhaps he could do it again. If Fili and Dis were saying anything, he could not hear them above the roaring in his ears.

“Thorin, please,” he begged softly, leaning in close so Thorin would know the words were just for him, _only_ for him. “I know you to be as merciful as you are powerful, I know you are. Ori won’t last long under that man. If you value your kingdom, what you did to reclaim it, you mustn’t – ah!”

A sudden wrenching tug, arms wrapped around his waist and yanking him back as though he weighed nothing, and suddenly Bilbo was in Dwalin’s grasp, red-faced and panting and not fighting at all. He felt hands clamp around his shoulders as soon as his feet were back on the ground, keeping him still.

“You’ll settle down if you know what’s good for you,” Dwalin hissed in his ear, tight and gruff and speaking under his breath so quietly that Bilbo could barely hear him. Bilbo wasn’t fighting anymore, Dwalin’s hands clamped down on his shoulders as strong and unbreakable as metal restraints. Blood pounding in his ears and horror still thrumming in his veins like his heartbeat, Bilbo took one last look around the room.

There were guards enclosing on them from every angle, all of the servants having fled back into the kitchens long ago. Fili was on his knees on the floor, clutching at his own hair, and Bilbo could not tell if the low noise he was making was a growl or a sob. There was no one pointing a sword at him, though, and that was what mattered. Dis was sitting in her chair with a frozen expression on her face, staring at the wall as though looking to it for answers.

And Thorin, standing tall and broad. Decked out in his regalia with steely fury evident in every breath, every motion. He did not deign to look Bilbo in the eye.

“Dwalin, please escort the King’s Consort to his chambers,” said Thorin coldly. For a moment, Bilbo stared at him, lips pressed tight together and the weight of a crushing loss heavy and hard in his stomach.

“Aye, Thorin,” Dwalin grunted, nodding roughly.

And when Dwalin led him away, his hands on Bilbo’s shoulders an order rather than a suggestion, all he could do was follow.

 

\--

 

Bilbo was sitting on the bed, head in his hands and feet dangling a few inches above the ground, when he heard the key turn in the lock. He looked up as the door swung open and Thorin entered the room.

Thorin’s expression was hard and dark, his shoulders set and his back straight, and he seemed to have divested himself of some of his decorative armour in the twenty minutes it took him to get here. He did not meet Bilbo’s eyes as he shut and locked the doors again, as he looped the key around his neck.

It was impossible to tell what he was thinking, to know just how bad the situation was. It was hard to care, though; Bilbo’s heart was so heavy he almost couldn’t bring himself to worry. His mind felt thick, numb. The quiet of the room was marred only by the soft crackling of the torches as Thorin stood in the doorway and looked at him in silence.  

“Stand,” Thorin ordered after a dragged-out pause, and Bilbo stood. Thorin’s expression was unreadable. “Come.”  Bilbo walked over to him without fighting, closing the space between them until they were only separated by a few feet.

He saw Thorin’s hand twitch, and Bilbo felt his whole body tense up. For a split second he was convinced that this was finally it. That Thorin was about to lash out at him the way he had lashed out at everyone else. To treat him like a prisoner instead of some kind of treasure; to make him _hurt_. Bilbo flinched, anticipating the crack of Thorin’s fist against his face and trying to brace himself for the impact.

When it finally came, though, it was not violent.

Instead, Thorin reached up and laid a hand on Bilbo’s cheek. It was a light touch, Thorin’s broad hand cupping his face gently, _so_ gently, as though he was made of spun glass. It was the hand he wore the ring on, and Bilbo could just barely feel the cool metal brushing against his cheek..

Bilbo was just about to dare a glance up at Thorin’s face when he felt the hand slide down to his chin, gripping it softly between two thick fingers and tilting his head up, effectively taking the choice away from him.

“I do not know what you were hoping to achieve,” said Thorin evenly, coldly. His eyes were steely, a stark contrast to the gentleness of his touch. “The agreement has already been signed. It is necessary and it will be done.”

Bilbo stared up at him listlessly.

“It’s _Ori_ , Thorin,” he said, jaw tight and his lips pursed and his heart so sad it felt as though it might burst. Not because he really believed he had a chance of changing Thorin’s mind at this point, but because there was nothing else to _say_.

Thorin’s eyes narrowed at his words.

He let go of Bilbo’s chin, and all at once he was pushing forwards, right into Bilbo’s space so that he had no choice but to either step back against Thorin’s encroaching bulk or let himself be knocked down to the floor. He stumbled backwards, tripping over his feet until his back collided with stone, Thorin crowding up against the wall of their bedroom without actually touching him at all.

Thorin towered in front of him, a barrier of immovable force; blocking Bilbo’s view of the rest of the room. After a moment Thorin reached up with both hands, settling them against the wall on either side of him so that his thick, strong arms were level with Bilbo’s head. Caging him in, keeping him still without laying a finger on him, and Thorin’s expression was still so painfully _blank_.

“You have a gentle heart, Bilbo _,”_ said Thorin softly, inclining his head to one side. Bilbo stood perfectly still, his back still pressed against the flat expanse of wall. After a moment, the barrier that was one of Thorin’s arms shifted. He reached forward, trailing his thick fingers down the line of Bilbo’s neck. “But I cannot afford to be gentle.”

Bilbo swallowed, wrung-out and limp. His throat felt sore as though he had been crying, but his eyes remained completely dry. Thorin took another step forward and Bilbo could _smell_ him, that heady smell of cedar and coal and the ink he signed official documents with. Bilbo tried very hard not to close his eyes and inhale, to block everything else out.

“If the elves go unchecked,” said Thorin solemnly, holding Bilbo’s gaze with his brow furrowed. “They _will_ rise up, and they _will_ strike.” His words were low and blunt, but they rang with a deep and genuine conviction. It was the same tone he had taken when he declared his intention to _take back Erebor_ so very long ago, in his speech to the people of Lake Town before they faced Smaug.

“We cannot match their force, not even with the aid of our allies in the Iron Hills.” Thorin slid his hand up from Bilbo’s neck to rest on his cheek. “If the elves succeed, they will slaughter or enslave every dwarf in the mountain. They will take our women and put our children in chains. They will melt down the treasury into misshapen scrap and cast our precious gems into the sea.” His tone made the last seem as dire and devastating as the first. Bilbo stared at him, unblinking.

“It is sometimes necessary to do… unpleasant things,” said Thorin, his eyes growing dark and distant for a moment before he gave his head a tiny shake and blinked it away. He brushed his thumb over Bilbo’s cheek. “In order to stop that from happening. In order to keep our kingdom strong.” His eyes flickered over Bilbo’s face carefully, watchfully. As though looking for signs of disagreement. “You understand, do you not? Why this is necessary.”

Bilbo stared blankly up at him, the stone of the wall cold against his back and Thorin’s hand heavy on his cheek.

Whether or not any of it was true – whether Thranduil was planning an attack, whether his army was strong enough to beat them, what the elves would do if they emerged victorious – was utterly irrelevant. What mattered was that _Thorin_ thought it to be true; that he would do whatever he believed necessary in order to win a war he believed to be unavoidable.

For a moment, the golden band around Thorin’s finger seemed to thrum with energy, pulsing a weak heartbeat against the skin of Bilbo’s cheek. It felt as though something was unravelling, unknotting in his chest.

And then, very slowly, Bilbo forced himself to relax. He wilted back against the wall, looking down at the floor as though in shame.

“Of course,” said Bilbo, his throat tight and his voice wavering slightly. He stretched his lips into a smile that was lopsided and empty, but a smile nonetheless. “Of course, yes. I know that, of course I do.” He let out a shuddery breath, giving Thorin an abashed look as though he was the one at fault. As though he was the one who did not understand.  “It’s just… hard. Watching it happen, you know. It’s… hard for me.”

And suddenly he was being yanked forward, pressed tight against Thorin’s chest as his arms closed around Bilbo in an embrace. He could feel Thorin’s hand rubbing calming circles on his back through the thick velvet of his robe, felt Thorin rest his chin on top of his head.

“I know, _ghivashel_ ,” Thorin rumbled, holding him close. Stroking him as though he was a disobedient pet that had finally decided to behave. “That is why I am here. To keep you safe, and close.” _And locked away_ , Bilbo finished sardonically in his head. He nodded emphatically against Thorin’s chest all the same. 

Squeezed tight against Thorin’s body, Bilbo felt a rush of terrible sadness fill his chest, as unfathomable and deep as the western sea. For a moment, he felt a profound grief and longing for the person Thorin had been so very long ago. The soft scratchy kisses, his pale blue eyes soft with affection. The warm sound of his laugh when one of the company made a joke; the deep sense of fellowship that had existed between them back then.

It made him want to cry.

But there was no place for tears anymore.

Instead, he buried his face into Thorin’s shoulder. Let himself be held close without protesting, leaned into the touch instead of flinching away. Felt Thorin’s big hands sliding gently over his back as his heart quietly hardened inside his chest.

 

\--

 

“I need you to tell me if there’s anything I can do.”

Across the table, Balin stared at him with a bemused and slightly furrowed expression on his face. He looked around uncertainly for a moment before turning his attention back to Bilbo again.

“Aye, Bilbo,” said Balin, somehow managing to sound cheerful, distracted, and patronizing all at once. “Why don’t you just keep practicing your letters, then. There’s a lad.”

It had been one week since the announcement of Ori’s engagement; one week since the scribe had disappeared from Bilbo’s life as though he had never been there in the first place. One week since Balin had been assigned to replace him as Bilbo’s tutor in reading, writing, and signing the dwarvish language.

The two of them sat in the farthest corner of Erebor’s great library, surrounded by shelves upon shelves of books and scrolls and maps and stacks of parchment, the air heavy with the smell of musty paper and ink. One of the fireplaces burned comfortably a few feet away from them, keeping the chill at bay and casting a warm light over everything. The table was stacked high with books, some of which were still singed from the dragon’s long occupation. In front of Bilbo there was a small pot of ink and a messy stack of parchment, some of which was blank and the rest of which was covered in blocky Khuzdul lettering. A book was propped open in front of him, and he was supposed to be copying the words onto the sheet of parchment on the table.  

Instead, Bilbo was leaning too far over the table with his quill still clutched in his hand. He shook his head, scrunching his nose and glancing furtively around the shelves again. “No, Balin, I don’t mean – I don’t mean the writing lessons,” he said, apprehension and exasperation clear in his voice. Balin frowned at him. “I mean…” He hesitated, biting his lip and trying to push down the nervousness welling in his chest. “I mean if there is anything I can _do_ ,” he said carefully, holding Balin’s gaze significantly.

Almost instantaneously, Balin’s face darkened. “I promise you I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Balin warningly, but Bilbo let out an uneasy breath of relief at the knowledge that at least they were both having the same conversation now.

Balin looked around them pointedly before giving Bilbo a chastising look; Bilbo responded by silently gesturing to something behind his back. When Balin turned around, he was able to see what Bilbo was seeing: that their escorting guard had fallen asleep in his chair, snoring very softly with his moth hanging slightly open.

When Balin turned back around to face him, his eyes were narrowed – but he seemed more willing to broach the subject, so Bilbo considered that a victory.

_All right then_ , Balin’s expression seemed to say. Now that the veneer of calm companionship had been dropped, Bilbo realized just how _tired_ he looked. Pinched and subtly rough around the edges, as though the last year had worn at him physically as well as mentally. Balin arched an eyebrow. _What are you trying to say._

Bilbo took a shaky breath, then let out a little huff of air. “You know how grateful I am for…” He swallowed, inclining his head meaningfully. “What we almost did.”

He thought about all the effort that had gone into that failed escape attempt, after the news had come of Bofur’s death on the frontlines. The secret messages from Balin, how long it took him to convince Bilbo that his offer to get Bilbo out of the mountain was not a trap from Thorin in disguise. All the planning and the careful timing that had gone into it; finding a trustworthy cart-driver who was also willing to take a risk for the right price, smuggling Bilbo out of the palace in the middle of the day. Bilbo thought back to the way the hay piled on top of him in the cart had tickled his nose, the way he had made himself as small and scrunched-up as possible, trying to make no more noise than a corpse.

Balin let out a dry, bitter laugh.

“Don’t be grateful for that, laddie,” he said, and Bilbo remembered the horrifying moment when Thorin had tracked him down with a pack of guards, as unrelenting and brutal as a natural disaster. The way he had thrown the cart-driver down on the ground – a red-haired dwarf with a three-pointed beard, and Bilbo still did not even know his _name_ – and hacked off his head with roars of frenzied fury before he could even ask who else had been responsible. One strike, two, three, a dozen, his body becoming unrecognizable as blood splattered Thorin’s face and Bilbo wretched and sobbed tears he did not have to fake.

Balin smiled at him sadly. “Just don’t.”

Shaking his head as though to send the memories away, Balin picked up one of the books strewn on the table between them. It was one that Bilbo had used in lessons before; an old tome about learning to write that had clearly been created with young dwarflings in mind. As soon as Balin opened the book, however, a folded piece of parchment fell out from between its page and landed on the table in front of him. The two of them exchanged a confused look, and Balin frowned slightly as he opened it.

As soon as he laid eyes on the contents of the page, Balin’s face went almost as pale as his beard. He stared at it, transfixed, as though the end of the world could have come and gone and nothing would surprise him more than this. Bilbo craned out of his seat to get a look, gesturing silently but emphatically for Balin to turn it around.

When Bilbo saw what was written on the page, he felt a blow to his stomach so visceral and sickening it made him feel lightheaded.

It was one of Ori’s sketches. The paper was creased and the lines of the drawing were rough, but the style was undeniably his. The fact that the sketch had been tucked into the textbook was no great surprise in itself, no matter how unexpected its sudden appearance was: Ori had frequently sketched out this or that while Bilbo practiced his letters, and it was likely he had simply tucked this one between the pages as a bookmark and then forgotten it.

But the truly jarring part – the part that shook Bilbo to his core – was that it was a sketch of Bilbo.

It was a picture from Ori’s perspective as he watched Bilbo practice his letters; leaning over a piece of parchment with a quill in his hand, staring down at the page with pleased concentration. But there was something about it that was not quite right; something that made him reach for the answer until, with a heart-rending jolt, he realized.

It was a sketch of Bilbo, but it was not Bilbo as he was now. There were not enough ornaments in his hair, the clothes too simple. Instead, Ori had drawn Bilbo as he remembered him during the quest.  His expression too pleased, too relaxed. Too happy. With an uncomfortable twist to his stomach, Bilbo realized that Ori had even tried to recreate from memory the dressing gown he had worn on the night the dwarves first came to his hobbit hole.

For a moment, Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut and pushed down the all-encompassing hopelessness that threatened to swallow him whole. When he opened his eyes again a few moments later, it was to catch Balin’s eye.

“Have you heard anything?” asked Bilbo quietly, the sinking feeling in his stomach only growing worse when Balin stiffly shook his head no.

“Just that he will be moving into long-term accommodations within the next few days,” said Balin after a pause. That Ori would be married soon – if he had not been already – was left unsaid.

Bilbo hesitated for a moment, craning his neck to make sure the guard was still sound asleep before daring to speak again. He leaned in close over the table, closing the space between them as much as possible.

“Balin, I know… I know you want to keep me safe,” said Bilbo, trying to get rid of the uncertainty in his voice. He gave a little cough, steeling himself for what came next. “But… he is not who he once was.”

For a moment, he thought about thick fingers running gently through his curls on a cold night on the road, the only light from the dying campfire and Thorin’s body such a warm, solid presence beside him. About the way Thorin had used to look at him, after Azog but before the ring: with a combination of love and amusement and sometimes irritation but always pride, the respect he had earned always a constant presence between them.

The look on Balin’s face – quietly devastated but knowing, so _knowing_ , the saddened acceptance that had come long before Bilbo’s own – let him know that he was not the only one who felt that way. He took a deep, steadying breath.

“And if there is any of him left to save,” Bilbo murmured, and his words were so quiet now they were barely audible even to himself, “I don’t think that letting him destroy everything in his path is the way to do it.”

Balin seemed to study him, looking him over from the top of his head to his fingertips and then staring blankly at a space somewhere behind Bilbo’s left ear. After a very, very long pause, Balin reached for a blank piece of parchment.

“I want you to practice writing these words,” said Balin in a volume slightly louder than his regular speaking voice, far more overt than they had been before. He began to scratch out a series of words in Westron on the page in front of him and Bilbo blinked, watching as he added phonetic pronunciation of the Khuzdul equivalent beneath each one. “There we are,” he said after it was done, handing it across to Bilbo with a too-wide smile on his face. “Plenty of work to be done until you’re quite up to snuff, laddie.”

“I – um. Thank you,” said Bilbo, furrowing his brow as he delicately took the paper from Balin’s outstretched hand. “I’ll… do that, then.” He glanced down at the page.

Most of the words were everyday items, all of them scratched out in Balin’s cramped and jagged hand. ‘Cooking pot’ and ‘tomato’, ‘overcoat’ and ‘bed linens’, and Bilbo scanned over them quickly, barely taking them in. But…

There. At the bottom. Four neat little words that did not match the rest of them, all nice in a row with their phonetic pronunciations written clearly underneath:

_Mirkwood. Rivendell. Wizard. Gondor._

Bilbo stared at the words, his heart pounding in his chest. The first three were obvious, laid out like that together: _these are the ones I am in contact with, these are the ones that will help us overthrow him_. The last word was a little more puzzling; he knew much less about the Men of Gondor and had no idea whether or not they would have any interest in helping them. He glanced up at Balin, still clutching the paper with shaking fingers.

“Oh, Bilbo, look at that. You got ink all over the page!” Balin chastised him, his tone so authentic that for a moment Bilbo started. Balin reached out a hand to take it from him. “It’s hardly usable anymore. Here, let me feed it to the fire.”

There was a beat – then Bilbo handed it over. Quick as a flash, Balin snatched it in a perfunctory fashion, stood, walked over to the fireplace grate, and cast it into the fire. They both watched as it curled and blackened, as it was consumed by the flames until there was nothing left. Until there was no trace of what had just taken place between them.

“I’ll likely ask you to do something for me in the next little while, now there’s a lad,” said Balin calmly as he returned to his seat, and it took a significant glance for Bilbo to realize that his meaning was not straightforward. He nodded emphatically.

“I’ll be ready,” said Bilbo, trying to fill his voice with the confidence and certainty that Balin deserved. The king’s advisor and one of the most powerful men in the kingdom besides Thorin himself – and Balin was putting himself in a tremendous amount of danger by sharing this information with him. For planning anything at all. It was treason, it was sedition. It was punishable by death.

And here Bilbo was, practically begging to be involved.

_Never do anything by halves, that’s what mum always said,_ he thought determinedly, giving his head a little shake and wincing with the way his hair ornaments chimed together as he did so. He spared one more glance at Balin, nodded his genuine thanks – and began working on his letters in earnest again as though none of it had ever happened at all.

 

\--

 

By the end of the month, there was another uprising in Dale. It was getting cold by then, even in the mountain. Hints of frost in the edges of the room, a sudden increase in fur-lined clothing among the wealthy. Despite the fire in the hearth, whenever Bilbo awakened without Thorin’s body there to keep him warm it was with his teeth chattering and his breath fogging the air.

The whispers and conjecture made it difficult to know for sure, but from what Bilbo could tell the violence in Dale had started over a rationing dispute. Thorin had promised a certain amount of cooking oil and wool for the winter; when Erebor provided a reduced quantity instead, the women of Dale had begun an outcry that was soon ringing from every corner of the city.

It was quashed quickly enough, though. The increased military training for Erebor’s expanded army was put to brutal use, and any complaints from the people of Dale were quickly silenced at swordpoint.

Still, in the three days it took to put down every hint of rebellion, Thorin was more explosive and violent than Bilbo had seen him since Smaug, since the battle, since he took the ring. It made him quick to anger and ruthless in his retaliation, and when Mirkwood had the misfortune of poking its nose out from its defenses and sending an emissary to the mountain at the height of his rage, Thorin ordered the elf on horseback to be shot full of crossbow bolts before he even reached the city gates.

Shockingly – _stunningly_ , though – none of it made popular support for Thorin decrease among the people of Erebor. Not the constant threat of war, not the brutal retaliations against any perceived slight, not the conscription notices showing up in more and more households every day.

No matter how he distanced other kingdoms or how many council members he unceremoniously fired, the dwarves of Erebor could not be more vocal in their praise.  Thorin was a gift from Mahal; he was the promised king, the leader who had united all seven dwarven families under the auspices of the Arkenstone. He was raising the dwarven people up from the disparagement and ostracism they had faced for thousands of years and leading them to a new and greater victory.

The destruction of Dale was not mindless brutality; it was the administering Erebor’s chiefest colony. The conscription and increased military training was not something to fear; it was Thorin protecting them from their enemies, prepared to do whatever needed to be done in order to keep them safe and hearty and whole. The frantic delving into the mines for more and more riches that Thorin often refused to trade away was not mindless greed; it was keeping their peoples’ most precious treasures safe and hidden and _theirs_ to cherish.

Having been born and raised in the Shire, the widespread support for war – for a leader who was willing to commit all kinds of crimes against others in the name of his own people – was more than Bilbo could truly wrap his head around.  The fear-mongering intensified and spontaneous demonstrations of support sprang up in all seven of Erebor’s major markets.

Thorin had never been one for long speeches, but he gave brief ones from Erebor’s battlements to great amassed crowds in the first weeks of winter, roaring about _our right_ and _have pride, have courage_ and _the world must now deliver what it has promised us_ as the ring shone on his finger so brightly Bilbo couldn’t believe that no one else seemed to notice.

The mountain swelled and seethed beneath him until Bilbo felt like the only sane creature in a frenzied ocean of madness, as the whirlwind of support seemed to rise higher day after day. Bilbo watched and waited, puttering around as best he could with guards watching his every move whenever Thorin was out of the room. As he bit his tongue to keep quiet, busying himself with simple tasks: meals with Dis and Fili, learning his letters, reading voraciously every time a book in Westron or simplified Khuzdul was sent his way.

Bilbo waited as the tension grew and tightened in his stomach like a great snake, watching and listening and waiting to be told that he could be of some help, that there was some way he could contribute to whatever was going on both outside and inside of Erebor’s walls to make this madness stop.  

Bilbo waited, and waited, as the days grew shorter and the sun grew dimmer and he could see none of it happen inside the darkness of Erebor’s halls. Biding his time; watching as everything was broken down and built up around him.  

 

\--

 

When the moment finally came, it went somewhat differently than Bilbo had expected it to.

A few months after his hushed conversation with Balin in the library, a delegation from Gondor arrived at Erebor. Although Bilbo was uncertain what, exactly, their official reason for being here was – a trade agreement, a military pact? – he had seen the glint in his husband’s eye, had heard Thorin speak about the visit enough times over the past two weeks to know that it was about important. Something crucial.

They held a formal banquet to celebrate the presence of the delegation. By itself, this was not overly unusual: welcoming banquets had been common enough in the early days of Erebor’s rebirth, and Bilbo was familiar with the custom even if it wasn’t one he’d had cause to participate in recently. What was strange, however, was the _secrecy_.

Since their arrival yesterday, the Gondorian ambassadors and notables and even _servants_ had barely left their designated chambers. The seclusion was strange, unnerving. Bilbo was used to showing delegates around the kingdom during official visits, accompanied by a cluster of stony-faced dwarf guards and trying to inject some liveliness into his voice as he pointed out landmarks and parroted their history to the crowd. He was used to seeing foreign servants scampering about, trying to go unnoticed but not familiar enough with the different city to make it possible.

This time, the Gondorian visitors had kept almost entirely to themselves. Even their welcoming banquet had been small, understated. Private. Rather than the bustling gathering of lords and ladies that Bilbo remembered from before, this time only the steward and his family, a few military personnel, and a very restricted number of servants had been invited. It made for a small banquet; intimate, personal.

Not very conducive to passing on secret information.   

From his seat at Thorin’s right hand, Bilbo felt his fingers tighten on the letter that had been carefully hidden away under his robes. He swallowed, Balin’s words about _extremely risky_ and _of utmost importance_ and _absolutely crucial that you are not caught, Bilbo, do you understand?_ ringing in his ears.

“And how are you enjoying your stay so far?” inquired Thorin next to him, his voice regal and composed and just disinterested enough to be considered proper at an event like this.

Across from them, Ecthelion II – the Ruling Steward of Gondor – smiled politely. He and all those accompanying him towered over the dwarves in attendance, but the dwarves had the advantage of a table and seats that were made to accommodate them. Ecthelion shifted slightly in his too-small stone chair, trying and failing to hide his discomfort.

“It is an honour to be welcomed into the great halls of Erebor,” said Ecthelion modestly, before spearing a bite of roast boar on his fork and bringing the morsel to his mouth. Bilbo mimicked him, suddenly hyper-aware of appearing distracted. Ecthelion’s wife Morweth nodded in agreement.

“You’ve done truly remarkable things with the guilds,” said Morweth, cocking her head to one side in a rather charming fashion. She was pretty for a woman of Man, Bilbo thought. Her light red hair was braided back in something resembling Dwarvish fashion behind her head. “I do wonder what on earth you could’ve done to inspire such hard work and diligence among your people. If only the guilds in Gondor worked so smoothly, and with so little conflict between them!”

Thorin inclined his head, silently accepting the praise. “I have found that it is best to direct animosity outside the confines of the city,” he said simply.

The conversation continued along this vein for some time. While they spoke, Bilbo tried to use the opportunity to scan over the seated notables for the clandestine token Balin had assured him their ally would be wearing. He tried to be subtle, smiling and eating as he flicked his eyes over the dwarves and Men seated at the long table. Bilbo took a long drink from his goblet, darted his eyes sideways, and –

_There_.

There was a middle-aged man in full Gondorian plate seated at one of the far ends of the table. He was sitting next to Dis, who was trying and only barely succeeding at pulling him into conversation. If Bilbo had to guess, he would say the man was some kind of military commander or other. His physique was concealed by the bulky armour and his face was rigid. There was almost nothing to single him out from all of the other Gondorians sitting at the table.  

With the exception of a thin silver chain with a green gem around his neck, so small and subtle Bilbo had looked him over three times without noticing it. He felt his heart quicken.

“I see your eyes lingering on my Consort,” came Thorin’s voice next to him, low and dark and breaking into Bilbo’s awareness for the first time in several long minutes, and Bilbo’s whole body tensed up immediately.

Across the table, Denethor son of Ecthelion went wide-eyed. Bilbo noticed the way his father and mother fell silent at once, the way Denethor’s sisters stared determinedly down at their own dinner plates.

“I – King Thorin,” Denethor choked out, glancing uneasily over at his mother and seeming to grow more uncomfortable by the moment. He was fairly young, Bilbo thought, although sometimes it was hard to tell with Men. Heat was rising in Denethor’s face. All Bilbo could do was to stare straight forward, to unfocus his eyes and remain rigid in his seat. To wait for this to be over. “I assure you, I did not intend any –”

“Peace,” Thorin assured him, a whiskery little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. There was a smug satisfaction radiating off of him in waves, and Bilbo tried his hardest not to visibly deflate in embarrassment and frustration. “I quite understand.” He reached over and placed a great hand on Bilbo’s back, rubbing possessively through the thick velvet of Bilbo’s robe. “He is very fair to look upon.”

Privately, Bilbo thought that Denethor’s staring had very little to do with him being fair and much more to do with the strangeness of having a hobbit on display in front of them. Denethor’s sisters had been looking at him in curiosity as well, but Thorin never seemed to feel the need to go through this song and dance with women. Bilbo shifted uncomfortably in his seat, acutely aware of the firm press of Thorin’s palm against his back.

“Thorin –” Bilbo murmured, and even though he was trying to sound reassuring it somehow ended up coming out uneasy instead. There was real danger here, even if it was of such a ridiculous nature.

“His people come from the far West, did you not know?” Thorin asked Denethor neutrally, unrelenting in his focus as he stared up at the skinny young man, and it was as though Bilbo had not spoken at all. “They are called Halflings. Brave little creatures, and very surprising.” Thorin leaned in close and pressed a kiss against Bilbo’s temple, and for a moment Bilbo closed his eyes. “Beautiful, as well.”

There was a pause, and all of the eyes at this end of the table were fixed – openly on discreetly – on Denethor. The young man licked his lips, glanced uneasily over at his father.

“He is very fair, King Thorin,” said Denethor politely, and even though it was exactly what Thorin has been trying to get him to say, Bilbo could feel his husband’s hand tighten painfully against his back. After a moment, though, Denthor continued. “Were I not engaged to Finduilas daughter of Adrahil, I am sure mine eyes could be tempted.”

There was a pause – before Thorin laughed, low and personable. As though all of it had been nothing more than a jest between friends. Bilbo relaxed a little in his seat, noting that Ecthelion and Morweth seemed to be doing the same. Half the table seemed to breathe out a sigh of relief.

“Heavens, I don’t know about that,” said Bilbo with a forced smile, and the Steward and his family laughed a little weakly. He inclined his head at Denethor, pointedly leaning into Thorin’s touch as he did so in order to circumvent another outburst. He heard Thorin sigh, low and pleased, next to him. “Thank you very much, I’m sure.”

Those around him went back to talking about guilds and resources and trading routes and army reserves, and Bilbo quietly diverted his attention back to the letter – to figuring out the best way to deliver Balin’s letter to their Gondorian ally without being noticed.

It was not as easy or straightforward as he had hoped. They finished the second dinner course, and then dessert. Eventually it was time for the final glass of wine and Bilbo still had not determined how to go about this business without being seen.

Anxiety was starting to eat at him, churning in the bottom of his belly, because Balin had _trusted_ him with this. Had known it would be difficult but was confident that Bilbo would find a way, and Bilbo was letting him down every second the letter was still concealed under his robe. A few people were rising from the table, now; it was acceptable to do so at such a late point in the night. Getting up with goblets of wine in their hands, wandering over to stand and chat a few minutes with others at the table, and _oh_.

Very discreetly, Bilbo reached into his pocket and wrapped his hand around the handkerchief he always kept there. He balled it up tight in his fist, and then – breath caught in his throat – transferred the handkerchief from one pocket to another without anyone noticing. He waited for a particularly intense moment of conversation before crumpling the letter into a ball and wrapping the handkerchief around it.

Bilbo placed his small hand over Thorin’s large one, drawing his husband’s attention for a moment.

“I think I’ll go and ask Dis about these table decorations,” Bilbo explained, stretching his mouth in a smile. Thorin was already nodding absently, still caught up in conversation with Ecthelion about the amount of soldiers Gondor had to offer, and Bilbo plucked up his wine glass and stood.

It felt as though he was in a dream as he walked along the table, passing lords and ladies and military commanders. There were dwarves and Men alike milling around, chatting stiffly with their eyes darting to Thorin every so often. He felt light-headed, hyper-focused, his heart pounding in his chest as he rounded the corner and came to the place where Balin’s messenger and Dis were sitting next to each other at table.

“Lady Dis,” Bilbo began, putting a stupid smile on his face and very much _not_ taking a deep breath in preparation. Dis glanced over at him, a curiously polite expression on her face. He came in closer so that he was standing next to the messenger; with the man sitting down they were just about of a height. “I was just wondering where you managed to get the flowers for the – oh!”

Bilbo let out an exclamation of horror as he slopped a considerable amount of wine over the side of his goblet, splashing it all down the front of the Gondorian messenger’s armour. The man recoiled a little in surprise, and Bilbo immediately began tutting and fussing with enough vigour that it would have made his Great Aunt Pansy proud.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Bilbo, his voice going high with a discomfort he did not have to fake, rushing over to the man’s side and putting a hand on his shoulder. A few people glanced over at them in confusion but looked away quickly when they saw what had happened, that it was King Thorin’s Consort who had managed to make a fool out of himself. Fili was staring at him with incredulous disbelief from across the table. “Good gracious, I really _am_ sorry, I just – oh heavens, your lovely armour! Here, just let me –”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his handkerchief, still wrapped around the crumpled-up letter. He made a show of mopping at some of the less wet parts of the man’s armour, making tsk-ing noises at the back of his throat.

“Really, I do apologize,” said Bilbo after another moment, and the Gondorian messenger shook his head.

“It is nothing,” said the man in a clipped voice, clearly eager for him to leave, and Bilbo swallowed hard.

_Now or never._

“Please,” said Bilbo entreatingly, surprising the man very much by grabbing his wrist. Bilbo forced the red-stained handkerchief into the man’s hand, manually making him close his fingers around it and giving him a significant look. “Take this as a gesture of good faith. I truly am very sorry.”

The man looked at him sharply – but after a moment, he squeezed his hand around the balled-up handkerchief. The paper inside would have crumpled in his hand, but the man did not say anything about it.

“Of course, my lord,” the man said eventually, nodding at him, and Bilbo hurried back to his seat with an shame-faced apology to both him and Dis. The walk back to his seat seemed unreal, as though he was walking through a dream instead of on his own two feet.  

When he returned to his seat next to Thorin, his husband turned and raised his eyebrow at him, and Bilbo did not have to fake the blush rising high in his cheeks.

“You might be brave and beautiful, but you are perhaps not the world’s most graceful creature, _ghivashel_ ,” said Thorin, dry and teasing, and Bilbo made a great show of burying his face in his hands.

“How did I _manage_ that,” Bilbo groaned, making sure his entire attention was focused on Thorin. Thorin, who would have been paying the closest attention to anything he was doing on the other side of the table. Thorin, who was being almost _playful_ instead of accusatory.

The letter was gone, in the hands of the Gondorians. There was nothing that Bilbo could do about it now.

“I’m so _embarrassed_ ,” Bilbo whispered, and Thorin laughed and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

 

\--

 

Despite the reputation he used to have in the Shire for being stodgy and fussy, at this point in his life Bilbo was rather used to being reckless. He had chased down the dwarves to join them on their adventure having known them all for less than half a day, had snuck into the Woodland palace to rescue his imprisoned companions equipped with nothing but a magic ring and sheer determination. Had faced down a _dragon_ despite the overwhelming odds, despite knowing exactly what would happen to him if Smaug woke up and found him in his lair.

What Bilbo was not used to, however, was having his own recklessness be kept a secret.

It had been easy enough to press the letter into the Gondorian messenger’s hand, to fumble into sedition like charging into a dragon’s den. That had been brave and stupid and over so quickly it had been almost impossible to think about it as treason at the time.

The act itself was done; over, finished, too late to go back now. But Bilbo was beginning to realize that it was the waiting and the watching – keeping quiet and contained, not being able to talk about or even _hint_ at what he’d done – that was driving him halfway to madness. That was beginning to grate on him like a slow-growing itch beneath his skin.

Ever since the early days of Erebor reclaimed, in public Bilbo had felt very much like a mere trinket for Thorin to show off – something to admire once and then ignore for the rest of the evening, eyes sliding over him as though he was of no real importance whatsoever. At first it had been infuriating; later it had been a blessing.

Now, however, it seemed to Bilbo that he could feel eyes on him wherever he went; walking through halls, eating meals, even when he was alone in his and Thorin’s chambers. It was not so much a sudden understanding of how little time he had to himself so much as it was the feeling that every dwarf in the kingdom was _watching_ him. As though they could tell what he had done just by looking at him.

It was ridiculous and silly and so fanciful that Bilbo wanted to _scold_ himself, but ever since committing his first real act of treason the whole world seemed to have narrowed down into the contents of his own head. He grew more conscious than ever of his escorting guards whenever he was moved around from place to place, found himself jumping every time Thorin came into a room.

He could feel the knowledge of what he had done bubbling up inside his chest like a pot about to boil over, and it seemed absurd that anyone could look at him and not see his betrayal writ plain across his face.

 

\--

 

“Are you quite all right, _ghivashel_?” came Thorin’s voice, dark and soft from behind him, and Bilbo nearly jumped right out of his skin.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, clutching his book to his chest and spinning around in the not-so-comfortable armchair he had been reading in. Thorin was standing there, clearly having just returned from some meeting or other. There was a subdued but quizzical look on his face, a crease in his brow. He must’ve entered their chambers without Bilbo noticing. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. “Thorin! I didn’t hear you come in.”

In truth, Bilbo thought, Thorin had been so pre-occupied these past few days that it genuinely felt like a shock to see him here. As autumn gave way to winter, Bilbo had seen less and less of Thorin at meals and in their chambers. It seemed as though there was a meeting with his war cabinet every few days; an endless parade of military captains and advisors that made the lines in Thorin’s face grow deeper and his patience grow shorter. Right now it was unusual for the two of them to have a moment alone in their chambers with both of them awake at the same time.

“I did not intend to startle you,” Thorin replied slowly, eying the book in Bilbo’s hands with curiosity, and Bilbo had the sudden urge to shove the volume out of his sight. This would have been an insane thing to do, particularly since it was a book of dwarvish children’s stories and thus not actually worth hiding.  

_I’m going mad,_ Bilbo thought uselessly, forcing a weak smile onto his face. _I’m actually going mad. No wonder Balin didn’t want me involved in this business; give me a few weeks and I’ll give myself away without ever having been found out in the first place._

“Quite all right,” said Bilbo in a rush, getting to his feet and leaving the book on the seat of the armchair. He turned to face Thorin, only wringing his hands a little bit. “I was just wondering when you’d be –”

He glanced up – and it was only at that moment that Bilbo was able to properly take in his husband. The rumpled state of his robes, the imperfections in his braids, the way his eyes seemed to be shining with some unknown fervour. Bilbo froze in place, biting at the inside of his cheek in order to cut off the rest of the sentence.

He could not put his finger on it, but there was something about Thorin in this moment that said _threat_.

“Thorin,” Bilbo began cautiously, his heart beginning to beat a little harder in his chest despite his best efforts to keep himself steady, but Thorin cut him off.

“There is something different about you lately,” Thorin declared tonelessly, staring at him with an intense focus Bilbo did not like one bit. He tilted his head deliberately to one side, narrowed his eyes a bit as though he was having trouble seeing what was in front of him – and for a moment Bilbo was reminded so strongly of the day Thorin stole the ring from him that his whole body tensed up. “Something is changed.”

“Mmm, I don’t think so,” said Bilbo, laughing a little with unease. He shrugged self-consciously, as though there was anything light-hearted about this conversation. “Same old me.”

“Do not lie to me,” Thorin commanded, the words low but brimming with authority, and Bilbo’s mouth snapped shut. Thorin took a step towards him, crowding ever-so-slightly into his space. Bilbo swallowed, staring up at his husband glowering over him and trying very hard not to panic. “I can see it in your heart. Something is different about you these past few weeks.”

_He knows,_ Bilbo thought frantically, sharp terror scrabbling at his insides like claws. It was paralyzing, leaving him speechless and wide-eyed and absolutely defenseless, and he has never been more conscious of being alone in a room with Thorin before now. _How could he know, how could he possibly know –_

With a steady hand, Thorin reached up and gently tucked one of Bilbo’s curls behind his ear. His thick fingers lingered there, toying with the point of his ear. Bilbo sucked in a breath.

“You are frightened,” Thorin declared quietly, staring with too much intensity into Bilbo’s eyes. “Of the violence taking place outside the mountain hall. You do not need to lie to me, Bilbo. I am not blind to what you feel.”

The immediate rush of relief was almost enough to make his knees go out from under him. 

“Yes,” Bilbo agreed, jumping onto the opportunity perhaps a little bit too quickly. Thorin did not seem to notice. “Yes, I’m… it frightens me.” He arranged his face into a worried expression, trying to ignore the way his heart was still pounding in his ears. “You know what I think about war, Thorin. After spending most of my life in the Shire… well. The Battle for Erebor was enough to last me a lifetime.”

“You will not have to see it,” Thorin promised him urgently, leaning down and tilting their foreheads together a little. Cradling the side of Bilbo’s head with just a little bit too much force. “I will do what must be done but you will not have to see it, _ghivashel_ , I can promise you that.”

And that, Bilbo thought sadly, was part of the problem.

“I know,” Bilbo insisted instead, because there was no point in saying anything else. He forced a smile as he looked into Thorin’s pale eyes – so close, so very _close_. “I know that.”

Humming softly, Thorin stroked a finger along his cheek. “You do not need to hide anything from me,” he murmured softly, and the statement was so untrue – so absolutely, abjectly untrue – that Bilbo wanted to laugh out loud.

Because Bilbo knew – beyond a shadow of a doubt, beyond any glimmer of unfounded denial or hope – that if Thorin ever found out about his treachery, he _would_ kill him. Thorin had proven that time and time again, had been willing to have his _nephew_ slain in front of him for crimes Kili had not even committed. It would not matter what Bilbo’s intentions were, the scale of the betrayal; Thorin would strike his head from his shoulders without a second thought, would spill his blood without thinking or caring.

Because Thorin might treat him like a treasure, but gold and gems did not bite back against the hand that owned them. Did not go sour and rotten while tucked away in the treasury.

And so instead of responding, instead of offering up empty words that he knew he would not be able to say convincingly, Bilbo wrapped his arms around Thorin’s neck and pulled him down into a kiss. Thorin made a noise of surprise against his mouth but did not hesitate, sliding his arms around Bilbo’s soft middle in order to pull him in closer.

This was not something they did often, although Bilbo was not entirely sure why. Could not tell if it was some influence of the ring or Thorin’s fixation on matters of the state or his own shift inward after Thorin wrested the ring from his fingers. They were married, after all. Thorin had seen to that, and it was not as though he was ever going to be allowed to leave. Not as though Bilbo could ever really say no.

Even as Thorin had arranged executions and enslaved cities and whipped the people of Erebor into a frenzy verging on madness, however, he had always remained kind when it came to this. When it was about the press of skin against skin and whispered words in the dark, heated kisses and determinedly stoking pleasure to life in Bilbo’s chest. Perhaps it was about keeping up the illusion that Bilbo was here willingly, but even though Thorin was not always gentle he was never cruel about this.

Bilbo had seen Thorin splattered with blood from head to toe, had seen him sign away on the death of several hundred prisoners of war without batting an eye. Had seem him execute his own cousin for imagined slights and attempt to have his nephew killed for reasons that were just as feeble.

He had never forced himself on Bilbo when it was clear he did not want to be taken, though. It was something Bilbo was grateful for every day, something he quietly worried that Thorin might have a change of heart about in the future.  

For now, though, Bilbo did not mind when this happened between them. Could even enjoy it most of the time – could close his eyes and turn off his mind and imagine a Thorin that did not exist anymore. It could be useful, too – a way to sway Thorin’s mind or distract him when needed.

And so Bilbo let Thorin kiss him hungrily, covetously, as though this was something that Thorin needed to cherish. He went easily when Thorin guided him onto their bed, when his broad hands stole beneath Bilbo’s robes and smoothed over his skin. When Thorin gripped him tight and made him writhe, groaning in appreciation as he stroked his ring hand down Bilbo’s cheek. When Thorin coaxed the fire already inside of him into something heated and bright-white and burning.

And when it was over, Thorin did not seem to remember what they had been talking about.

Bilbo burrowed into his side, laid his head on Thorin’s breast, and tried to ignore the way immense relief mingled with the ever-present dread in his chest.

This had been a reprieve, of course. Nothing more.

It did not mean that he was safe.

 

\--

 

In the end, no matter how torturous it was, there was nothing Bilbo could do except wait.

He waited as the conscription rates soared and fervent support stayed swollen in the streets, as winter approached in a relentless march that made the stone floors feel frozen beneath even the thick pads of his own feet. As Erebor’s people gorged themselves on grain farmed by the slaves of Dale, safe and warm inside the protection of the mountain. As the army regrouped until it the weather would be warm enough to fight again.

Bilbo’s part might have been over, but the reality of the world around him lingered on. Lurched at his stomach like a sickness sometimes, zealous and rising and quietly horrific in its madness.

Sometimes it felt as though everyone could see through him without even trying.

Other times it felt as though no one could see him at all.

He smiled strained smiles and made polite conversation at dinner; pressed kisses against Thorin’s mouth sometimes to distract him from whatever frantic thoughts were building up in his head. It was too dangerous to talk to Balin and he could not be sure of anyone else, and Bilbo largely spent his days being escorted from room to room and watched by guards and held close by Thorin and not talking, and not talking, and not talking.

Bilbo could not stop himself from fraying at the edges, and in the end it was only a matter of time before Thorin noticed.

 

\--

 

They were in the throne room when it finally happened.

It was at the tail-end of winter, a fresh warmth beginning to creep back into Erebor’s halls after so much cold and chill. Open court was in session, and the audience that was interrupted by it all was something so mind-bogglingly dull that no one would be able to remember what the topic had been afterwards. Recommended stipends for dwarves over 200 years of age, an increase in taxation in order to fund improvements to the sewage system – something droning and tedious and utterly not worth listening to as soon as the great doors creaked suddenly open in interruption.

As soon as the unmistakable sight of two dwarven guards forcefully escorting another creature inside appeared in the throne room doorway.  

Everyone stopped talking at once, Thorin’s eyes flying to the intruders. Whoever had been speaking melted silently away into the crowd of assembled advisors and notables. There was silence accept for the stomping tread of two pairs of iron boots on the stone floor, the sound of a third pair of feet being dragged along the ground.

The creature the two guards were hauling between them looked too big and too slender to be a dwarf; a Man perhaps, something wrong with Dale or with the mining colonies to the East. Every dwarf in the room stilled as they came closer, sharing uneasily glances and darting looks at the king. Bilbo felt disquiet begin to grow in the base of his stomach.

It was only when the guards reached the halfway point down the long walkway, however, that Bilbo had the jarring realization that they were dragging an _elf_. 

It had long matted hair and was dressed in a tattered tunic and pants, and it was a few seconds before Bilbo was able to identify it as male rather than female. The elf was badly hurt, that much was clear as soon as the procession was close enough to the throne for the guards to shove their prisoner to the ground in supplication. One arm hanging useless at his side, blood steadily dripping from a wound on his head. Gnarled fingers that may very well have been broken. Even forced to his knees the elf was swaying slightly in place, head lolling listlessly onto its chest.

And this was not good, _not good_ , because this was something important enough that the guards had deemed it necessary for them to interrupt the king’s court in the first place.  More likely still, their _commanding officer_ had deemed it necessary. Had made the decision that this was pressing enough to warrant barging in unannounced and demanding Thorin’s attention, and Bilbo genuinely had no idea what could possibly evoke that level of urgency. A declaration of war from a foreign kingdom? An invasion?

The whole room seemed to hold its breath, silence reigning except for the shuddering gasps from the elf on the ground. The pit in Bilbo’s stomach grew and widened, and at the back of his mind a wordless fear flickered to life. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Thorin demanded in a low growl, his eyes flashing and his ring hand clenching on the arm of his throne. His eyes moved from the prone elf on the ground – Mirkwood, Bilbo thought, the remains of his armour was all wrong for Lothlorian or Rivendell – to the guards who had just dragged him in. Thorin’s whole body was rigid, the coiled energy inside of him ready to be unleashed at a moment’s notice.

The guards – a blond dwarf with intricate beading in his beard and a darker-skinned counterpart with hair cropped unusually short – shared an uneasy glance. It was only a moment, a second, but inside Bilbo reeled _._

Whatever it was, they were afraid of letting Thorin know.

Instead of replying, the blond guard gave the elf prisoner a sharp kick to the side. The elf cried out sharply in pain, doubling over and clutching at his side. His tangle of auburn hair poured over his shoulders, obscuring his face.

“Tell him,” the guard commanded, narrowing his eyes before kicking his prisoner hard in the side again. The prisoner let out another involuntary noise of pain when the boot made contact. “ _Tell him what you told us_.”

Thorin’s attention moved to fix entirely on the elven prisoner, and Bilbo took the opportunity to risk a glance over at where the rest of Thorin’s advisors and guards were standing along the edge of the room. Most of them were gray-haired old men with too many years between them, most of whom looked bewildered at what was playing out in front of them. Dis was wearing a mask of polite curiosity on her face, but next to her Fili was practically _shaking_ with intensity. Dwalin’s brown was furrowed, his hand already creeping toward the handle of his axe.

Next to him, Balin had gone completely and utterly still.

Bilbo turned back to face the front of the hall just as the elf prisoner raised his head up, bloody and bruised and half his face swollen up. Some of those injuries were old, Bilbo realized with a jolt. Days old, at least.

This was no low-level messenger the guards had apprehended by chance. This was someone important; someone worth torturing for information instead of ending his existence with an axe blow to the head.

“… I do not know everything,” croaked the elf, resignation and fear heavy in the words. His voice sounded strained from screaming, worn rough at the edges. “Please, I do not know everything. They do not tell me, they do not trust me, _please_ , I swear it.”

“Tell me of which you speak or I will cut the tongue from your mouth to cease your rambling,” said Thorin, low and quiet and absolutely serious, and the prisoner shook his head hard.

“… there is a plot, my king,” said the prisoner in a very small voice, fragile and hopeless and clearly terrified of being broken further, and Bilbo felt the bottom fall out of his stomach.

The words broke over his body like a wave violently crashing against the shore, and for a second it was as though pure white fireworks flashed in front of his eyes. Bilbo sucked in a sharp breath and then instantly regretted doing so, felt his whole body go tense at the tiny sound. He didn’t take his eyes off the elf prisoner, didn’t steal a glance at Thorin or look over at the crowd because as soon as he did it would all be over. He would break, he would rupture, he would shatter into a million pieces.

_He knows,_ Bilbo thought as pure panic coursed through his veins, jolting up and down his spine and pounding in his chest and making him feel as though he himself might fall to his knees at any moment. _He knows, he knows, he knows, he knows, he knows._

“There are always plots,” Thorin spat out bitterly, and Bilbo dared a glance over at him just in time to see his husband’s eyes narrowing. “ _Ahyrunâlh_! _Kalilel_! You elves are always plotting, always _scheming_ against me. Always trying to stab me in the back.”

The prisoner gave his head a weak little shake. “Not just the elves,” he said, in a voice that begged for mercy and begged for death all at once. “Gondor fights at their side, and all of them are led by the grey wizard.”

A rush of whispers and shocked little exclamations rose up in the wake of this declaration. Thorin said nothing, hard and rigid and looming in his throne, and it wasn’t Bilbo’s imagination that the ring was catching the firelight more than it should be, shining _too bright_   in the darkness.

“And…” the prisoner began, hesitating. Bilbo’s breath caught in his throat. The whole world seemed to narrow down to the beat of silence. “And they are receiving help from someone within your kingdom.”

Numbness rushed through Bilbo’s body, left him feeling lightheaded. Next to him, Thorin did not move except to flex the fingers of his ring hand.

“There have always been traitors in Erebor,” Thorin muttered, distracted and under his breath as though he did not think that anyone could hear him. “The kingdom is filled with them.” He tilted his head to one side a little. “Tell me who they are,” he commanded, dark and resolute and utterly unbending.

In front of him, the prisoner shook his head. “Thranduil never told us, my king, I _swear_ it. He never mentioned any names. Just that… just that it was someone close to you. Someone you trust, and that is all I know, my king, I _swear_ –”

The room’s reaction to this sentence was so immediate and so _loud_ that for a moment Bilbo actually thought he had lost his hearing. There were people talking, people _shouting_ and he couldn’t hear any of it. Could only sit there in his seat as numb terror washed over him, cold and hot and abrupt. He kept his eyes fixed on the prisoner even though he could barely see him a few feet in front of his face.

Because from the very first day, Bilbo has been the one fighting against Thorin’s decisions. It had been public, most of it. Open and clear as anything.

Bilbo had been the one to beg for Kili’s life, had mourned Bofur instead of letting the memory of him slip from his mind, had fought Thorin over Ori’s marriage until he had to be _physically dragged away_. He had been the one that Dwalin – loyal Dwalin, the closest thing Thorin even had to a friend anymore – had been suspicious about since the day Thorin sealed them together with a marriage. Bilbo was the outsider, the interloper, the one who had never belonged.

If there was anyone who looked like a traitor in Thorin’s inner circle, it was him. Had always been him, even before any of it was true.

_This is it,_ Bilbo thought distantly, as though he was somewhere outside his own body. _After all that, this is how it ends._

Next to him, Thorin wrenched himself from his seat. He moved like a force of nature, fast and brutal and unstoppable as he crossed the short distance to the prone elf prisoner on the ground. They were almost eye-to-eye until Thorin grabbed a handful of the prisoner’s hair and _yanked_ his head back, drew a dagger out of his robes and pushed the edge of the blade right up against the elf’s pale throat.

“If you value your life, you will tell me who has betrayed me,” Thorin growled, digging the blade into his throat so that a tiny stream of blood trickled down his neck. “ _You will tell me who!_ ” he shouted, the sound echoing harshly off the cavernous walls, and all Bilbo could think was that there was no point in even trying to run. Bilbo would be dead before he could even make it out the door.

“I do not know!” the elf whimpered, his eyes squeezed shut and his whole body starting to shake with the strain of being held like this. “I beg of you, I do not know, please –”

Without hesitating, Thorin whipped the dagger downwards and stabbed it into the elf’s thigh, burying it down to the hilt in a single brutal movement. The prisoner _howled_ , threw back his head and spasmed sharply in Thorin’s grip as a gush of blood spurted from the wound. Bilbo gasped sharply, bit down hard on his lip to keep from crying out at the sight.

“ _Tell me_!” Thorin roared, and the elf just _sobbed_.

“I s-swear,” he keened, sucking in great gulps of air and reeling, falling, struggling without meaning to in an attempt to get away from the pain, to make it _stop_. “That is all he said, I swear on my life. Just – just that it must someone close. The things they knew…” he trailed over, wailing as Thorin gripped the hilt of the dagger and _turned it_ in his wound. Another gush of blood came rushing out, soaking through his already sopping britches and pooling on the ground beneath his bent knees. “I do not know!” he wailed, desperation and panic clear in every line of his long, contorted body. “I do not know, I do not know, I _swear_ –”

With a single sharp movement, Thorin wrenched the dagger out of the elf’s leg, brought it up to his neck, and slashed it dagger across his throat. It took Bilbo a moment too long to realize what was happening, and by the time he gasped blood was already spraying from the elf’s neck in a torrent. Bilbo cried out, reeled backwards, felt his back collide with the hard stone of the chair as the prisoner’s words were swallowed up by a horrific gurgle. Thorin let the body crumple.

There was blood _everywhere_ , sprayed across the stone floor and soaking Thorin’s hand and dripping from the dagger and seeping out of the crumpled body on the ground.

Bilbo stared in shock, his heart pounding in his ears as Thorin stood slowly, dragging himself to his feet.

“Who,” Thorin demanded quietly, turning to face the assorted crowd of advisors and family that were still standing frozen behind his throne. His golden crown was askew and his head was bowed, long braided hair hanging over his face, obscuring his eyes. He tightened his grip on the handle of the dagger and the ring glinted, shone in the light.

For a moment, Thorin seemed to sway on his feet – but when he tilted his head up and looked at them there was nothing uncertain or weak about him. There was only fury and rage and frenzied determination, his steely blue eyes flashing over them as he surveyed all of the people he had allowed to stay close to him in the world.  

He narrowed his eyes. “ _Who_.”

No one said anything – didn’t move, didn’t _breathe_ as Thorin stared them down. Surveying them, taking them in. His eyes flicked over Fili and Dis before coming over to settle on Bilbo, looking him right in the eye and Bilbo almost sobbed, almost _cried_ , felt the panic going off in his chest and this was it, this was it and he was going to die here today, was never going to see the Shire again because he knew, Thorin _knew_ , could see right through his skin and right down to his bones and this was it, this was _it_ –

“Me.”

The whole hall went utterly, perfectly still – and Bilbo and Thorin both froze at the exact same moment when Balin stepped forward out of the crowd. Pushing through the other dwarves with that quiet strength and walking out so that he was only standing a few feet in front of Thorin, and Bilbo stared in incomprehension, in _disbelief_. In horror.

A few paces away, Dwalin was staring at his brother with an expression of such complete shock and betrayal that Bilbo actually felt a pang for him. Bilbo swallowed hard, not daring to blink in case he should break the spell, because Balin should be dead by now. Should be stabbed through a dozen times, should be gushing blood like the elf prisoner crumpled on the ground.

He wasn’t, though. Was still alive and standing, still _talking_. Bilbo stared.

“It was me, laddie,” said Balin quietly, looking Thorin right in the eye without wavering, and for the very first time Bilbo truly understood just how much bravery it must have taken Balin to act against Thorin all these months. Because Balin was not shaking, did not sound uncertain at all. As though he had known from the very beginning that it would come to this. “It’s always been me.”

“You honourless worm,” Thorin breathed, the frenzy back in his eyes again, tilting his head to one side and _staring_ at Balin as though he has never seen him before. “You weak old man. I trusted you.” His lip curled, eyes narrowing. “ _I trusted you_.”

Balin nodded. “I know you did,” he said, giving Thorin a very pointed look. After a beat he slowly raised his hands in the air palm-out, placating. He took a slow step forward. “I’ve known you your whole life, Thorin. You trusted me for a _reason_. You’re the son I never had. I loved you like one of my own.”

“Traitor,” Thorin whispered, his eyes unfocused and wild. Balin shook his head.

“No,” Balin insisted quietly, giving his head the gentlest shake. “No, Thorin, I am still loyal to you. This?” He gestured at Thorin, standing in the throne room hall with his arm soaked in blood and his eyes shining with mania. “This isn’t you. Hasn’t _been_ you for a very long time, laddie. Ever since –” Balin hesitated, glancing down at Thorin’s hand briefly before straightening with resolve. “Ever since you put on that ring.”

Thorin flinched violently, jerking his arm backwards as though he had been struck, but did not give any other indication that he had heard Balin’s words.

“How many others,” Thorin demanded quietly, the words ringing loud in the stillness, narrowing his eyes at the assorted crowd of advisers and family. “How many others have betrayed me.”

“It’s just me, Thorin,” said Balin, just as quiet, his hands still raised in placation. He took another step forward, and Thorin did not react. Did not attack, or reel backwards. Bilbo’s breath was caught in his throat. “The Thorin I know would never do this. Would never slaughter his own people without justice, would never ravage his neighbours simply because he _can_. It’s cruel, and you’re not cruel, are you?” Balin asked, so perfectly still he almost looked like a statue. “Are you.”

_Come on, Balin,_ Bilbo thought, praying to every god he had ever heard of. He sucked in a shaky breath. _Come on, Thorin. Please._

_Please._

 “I trusted you,” said Thorin stupidly, his gaze falling to the ground. He clenched his ring hand tight around his dagger – before releasing it and letting it clatter to the ground.

Bilbo felt his heart catch in his chest.

Thorin clenched his empty fist as though the hand pained him, flexed his fingers. Bilbo’s eyes followed the movement hungrily, _desperately_. There was confusion in his eyes, now. The first uncertainty Bilbo had seen there for a very long time.

“You trusted me for a reason,” said Balin rationally, sensibly. “This ring has corrupted your heart and laid waste to your mind. It is evil, Thorin, and it has made you do evil things. It has ensnared your will, but it is not too late. It’s –”

“ _I trusted you_!” Thorin bellowed, the sound loud and guttural as it crashed off the stone walls.

He went for his sword.

“ _No_!” Bilbo shrieked, blind panic bursting in front of his eyes. He wrenched himself out of his small throne and hurled himself forward, _threw_ himself on the ground in front of Thorin before he had a chance to take more than a few steps forward. Bilbo clawed at his robes, at his cloak, holding on to any part of Thorin he could. Thorin tried to shake him away, but Bilbo just clung on harder. “Thorin, please – _please_ –”

He felt the arms around his waist before he heard the footsteps behind him, felt the ground disappear from beneath his knees as he was roughly yanked upwards by one of the guards.

“You and your brother,” he heard Thorin grit out through clenched teeth as he wrenched away from the last vestige of Bilbo’s clawing grip. “You and your lying, _treacherous_ –”

“No!” Bilbo screamed again, writhing in the guard’s grip, kicking out and beating at the thick arms around his waist with his fists. He looked up and saw Thorin stalking towards Balin, closing the small amount of space between them. Bilbo’s vision was distorting, the whole world _shrieking_. Bilbo let out an inhuman wail, struggling and flailing and sobbing, just _sobbing_. “Thorin, no! No!”

There was a choked-out bellow of utter shock from across the room, and Bilbo glanced over just long enough to see Dwalin fall to his knees, one of his guards’ daggers embedded in his neck. His eyes were wide with incomprehension as blood spurted out and he clutched at the wound, gurgling wetly as he fell to the ground, and he hadn’t even _done_ anything, he hadn’t –

It happened just quickly enough for Balin to look over, to see his brother die. A look of heartbroken devastation crossed over Balin’s face, shocked horror and regret and profound hurt, and –

And then, in a moment that seemed to stretch on for long moments and rush by in less than an instant all at once, Balin glanced over at Bilbo. Caught his eyes, just for a second. Just for a heartbeat. It was a look that said everything and nothing and Bilbo sobbed, _strained_ at the arms holding him back.

— and then Balin was crashing to the ground as Thorin grabbed him by the shoulders, forced him to his knees –

— someone was crying, sobbing, the sound of it drowning out all other sounds in the chamber, a high and unending wail –

—Thorin raised his sword –

The crackling _crunch_ as Thorin brought his sword crashing down on Balin’s neck rang through the hall, echoed through Bilbo’s brain.

“ _NO_!” Bilbo shrieked, still struggling out of instinct, not able to process what had just happened. There wasn’t enough blood, and Thorin couldn’t – he _wouldn’t_ –

The sword stroke had not been clean – Thorin was reeling, uneven and off-balance and uncontrolled, and the strike had not gone anywhere close to all the way through. It sent Balin’s kneeling body into a sprawl, brought Thorin down with it as he was dragged along by his sword embedded in the back of Balin’s neck. Bilbo wailed, shaking his head so hard he couldn’t see anything. His vision was blurry, distorted, as though he was underwater and it wasn’t real, none of it was _real_ –

With an animalistic scream, Thorin wrenched his sword free of Balin’s neck before bringing it crashing down again, this time releasing the great spurt and gush of blood that had been absent before. He roared as he hacked at Balin’s neck again, and again, brutal and sickening and unending, until eventually the crunch of bone and cartilage gave away to a clanging sound as the sword connected with the stone floor. Over and over until the mess of robes and blood on the ground didn’t even look like Balin anymore, and Bilbo just kept sobbing out denials as he slumped weakly against the guard’s restraining arms, all of the fight from him because Balin – _Balin_ –

It was as though the whole world was slipping away from him, the solidity of the ground being pulled out from under his feet. Bilbo could hear the sound of his own voice as he sobbed ringing through the air, but he could not feel it. Could see the blood seeping out far enough from Balin’s body that it reached the place where he himself was standing, but Bilbo could not feet its wetness or heat beneath his feet. It was as though everything that was him was being sucked out of his chest, compressed. Scrunched up into a tiny ball and shoved somewhere deep inside.

When it was over, Thorin was left standing over Balin’s broken body with his sword clutched in both hands and his chest heaving, staggering slightly as he glowered at the room through the tangled curtain of his hair. His teeth were bared and his whole body was splattered with so much blood that it was hard to see the spaces in between. Hard to make out the parts of him that could be glimpsed through the carnage.

The ring shone dully on his finger as he gripped at the sword with unshaking hands.

And Bilbo’s last thought as the guards dragged him away – to a cell, to their chambers, to the highest fortification in the mountain to throw him off the edge, he neither knew nor cared – was that there was no hope for him _or_ Thorin, anymore. That they were both doomed, in their way. Condemned to their respective fates.

Because Bilbo understood now, in the way that Balin always had, that there was only one way to end this. Only one way to escape, and they were one and the same.

The only way to end the carnage – to stop Thorin’s reign of slaughter and enslavement and _destruction_ from unfurling and spreading across all of Middle Earth – was either to kill Thorin or to die trying.

Bilbo’s last thought as he was dragged away, feet dripping with Balin’s blood and tears having left a cold wet trail down his face, was that it did not matter which one happened. If Thorin died, or if he did, or if they burned together in a blaze as hot as dragon fire.

It was the same thing, in the end. It made no difference at all. 

Thorin had been dead from the second he put on that ring, and Bilbo…

He let himself be dragged away, feeling the hollow nothingness settle inside his chest.

Both of them were already dead and gone to begin with.

 

 

 

 

 

**The End**

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so very much for reading and for sticking with this story all the way to the end. If you enjoyed this fic, please consider leaving a comment -- I would truly appreciate it. 
> 
> I'm also available on [tumblr](http://emilianadarling.tumblr.com) for any questions, comments, or general fandom flailing. 
> 
> <3


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